


The Optimists in Foxholes Affair

by otherhawk



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Deadly Neurotoxin, Gaslighting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4035613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherhawk/pseuds/otherhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a mission in England, Napoleon is captured by a dangerous man and struggles to keep his sanity intact, while Illya must leave his partner to his fate and complete the mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything Man From UNCLE related.
> 
> A/N: Having had a wonderful response to what I've posted so far, and several comments saying how much people are enjoying the banter I write between the two, that part of my brain that I will never understand immediately decided that for my first multichapter story I should write something where they're separated for most of it. Let's just not ask. And thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favourited, followed or indeed read.
> 
> A/N2: I anticipate this being around five chapters. But I'm often wrong.

The rain was bouncing off the street in front of him as he ran and he tried to watch each step, gripping the vial close to his chest. Slipping right now would be an odd and embarrassing way to die.

He'd told Louie to take Elsa and get out of here while he took the sample. At least that way THRUSH were less likely to get both the neurotoxin and the scientist who knew the production process. And as he'd been dodging THRUSH he'd heard them say that the two had made it onto the plane. They were safely away...and still Napoleon found himself scanning the doorways in the street ahead, hoping he might just be leading THRUSH into an ambush, hoping that Louie might have disobeyed orders and come back for him.

Small hope. Over the past week Louie Framer had shown himself to be an excellent agent, competent and dedicated. He'd put the mission first, just like he should.

He took a wrong turn in the dark and the rain and found himself facing a solid brick wall. THRUSH was right behind him.

"Mr Solo," the Baron called genially from behind him. "Mr Solo, I am afraid this game has come to its inevitable conclusion."

"Not quite," he said turning round, the vial held aloft. "If I drop this now we'll all be dead within thirty seconds. THRUSH won't get the formula – you'll fail _and_ you'll be dead."

There was eight of them besides the Baron. They were spread out across the alley, watching his hand apprehensively and he couldn't hope to force his way past them.

"Mr Solo, that is not going to work," the Baron said, shaking his head sadly. "Yes, if you drop the vial we will die and you will achieve a kind of pyrrhic victory, however I've seen the same experimental data that you have. There is enough of the new neurotoxin in that vial to kill everyone in the buildings surrounding us as well. This is a residential neighbourhood. Slum housing. I believe the people here sleep twelve to a room – how quaint. Are you really prepared to die with the lives of three hundred people on your conscience?"

He kept his gaze even. "If THRUSH put this stuff into production there'll be a lot more dead."

"Oh, really, Mr Solo," the Baron chided. "That is not at all the way you think. You are an inveterate optimist. Even now, trapped like an animal, you are trying to delay me in the hope that rescue will come as it so often has for you before. If I take the vial from you now, you will still believe that UNCLE will be able to stop us before the toxin goes into mass production. It is simply an inevitable function of your personality." He signalled and one of his goons stepped forwards, hand outstretched.

Napoleon looked at him for a long moment and then sighed and dropped the vial into his hand. Three hundred people. The Baron was right; he really didn't have it in him.

"You are quite wrong, of course, Mr Solo," the Baron went on cheerfully as a second goon started to pat him down, quickly removing his gun and communicator. "THRUSH cannot be stopped." He passed the vial to another of his men. "Take that directly to our facility in Dublin, please," he directed. "Give them my compliments and tell them I shall be taking care of Mr Solo's...debriefing...personally."

"Yessir," the lackey nodded and stepped away smartly.

There was a gap now. He glanced down at the guy still patting him down and carefully crooked his leg, drawing it back slightly as though he was trying to conceal something. The man grinned up at him and leaned in closer, and that was when Napoleon drew his knee up smartly, knocking him hard in the face, and took off running.

He didn't expect he was going to be able to escape entirely. There were too many of them and they were too well trained. But he _was_ an optimist, and so he had to try at least. Besides, the neurotoxin was being sent to Dublin and he had to find a way to tell UNCLE that. He winced as a bullet hit the wall ahead of him and took a couple of sharp turns, doubling back, running up a fire escape and jumping onto the flat roof opposite before dropping down the other side. That gave him some distance, he hoped. Now if only he could find a phone, or... He spied an abandoned spray can of paint sitting in front of a well-graffitied wall.

Well, that would have to do. Beggars can't be choosers, and all that. He snatched it up quickly and found the largest clear bit of wall he could. Now, it couldn't be anything too direct or else the Baron would see it and have it destroyed. Ah. ' _Ulysses'_ he scrawled as large as he could. He'd been reading it the last time they'd been in Dublin, and the local head of section 2, Eoin Callaghan, had noticed and started talking about how it was a poor and inaccurate representation of the city, and their THRUSH captor-turned-captive had spoken up on Joyce's behalf, and somehow Napoleon had become embroiled in the argument, both men trying to prove their point using streetmaps, and then Illya had weighed in on THRUSH's behalf out, Napoleon was convinced, of sheer contrariness. That should do – at any rate, it was something Illya was sure to remember. And just to make sure it was obvious, he scrawled HC immediately after.

He barely had enough time to drop the paint and step back when the Baron's men came thundering round the corner.

"You see, Mr Solo," the Baron smiled as he strolled more leisurely after them. "There is no hope for you. You are all alone, I'm afraid. Let's be honest, you never had a chance."

He smiled, not looking anywhere near his freshly-painted handiwork. "So it would seem," he agreed. As long as Louie had Elsa away safely, they would know where to begin searching for him and, by extension, the vial. And Illya would spot the clue he'd left behind. No matter what, UNCLE could still win here.

"I am going to take pleasure in breaking you," the Baron said with a thoughtful frown. "By the time I'm finished you'll be only too eager to give THRUSH every secret in your head." There was no overt menace in his tone. He might as well have been discussing the weather.

He kept the smile firmly in place. "Well, why don't we give THRUSH a head start?" he suggested. "I can tell you now – I was the one who stole the cookies from the cookie jar. And I framed my partner for it. That's the most dangerous secret I'm holding right now."

"Don't worry, Mr Solo," the Baron said, clapping him heartily on the shoulder. "We have plenty of time to discover more interesting secrets, you and I. Now. Shall we?"

A black car pulled up and he was bundled towards it, his hands being pulled behind his back and efficiently cuffed. He had to admit, things weren't going well.

( _Illya would've come back for him._ )

* * *

They kept him cuffed and blindfolded for the journey. All he was left with was the idea it had been about a five hour drive. Five hours out of London covered a lot of ground, especially since for all he knew, they'd just been driving round in circles. There'd been far too many turns for him to follow. At least he knew he was still in Britain.

The journey had eventually ended with a short walk across gravel and into a building with stone floors, large echoing rooms and a lot of people talking almost out of earshot. He'd been taken down stairs – sixty of them – and along a corridor, and then there was the sound of a door opening and -

" - here we are, Mr Solo," the Baron said, removing the blindfold with a flourish. "Home sweet home. Or rather; this will be your home for the foreseeable future."

Blinking furiously against the overly-bright light, he looked round slowly. Oh. This was not promising. They were standing in a large concrete room that looked as though it had been furnished directly out of the THRUSH torture manual. There were no windows and only the door they'd just walked through. The walls were lined with weapons and instruments of torture, and there was a metal cage set in the centre of the room.

"I see," he said brightly. "And what time's breakfast?"

The Baron laughed. "I do admire your strength of spirit, Mr Solo," he said. "I'm afraid though, you will have other things on your mind than breakfast." He signalled one of his men to unlock the handcuffs. "Now. Please be so kind as to remove your clothes."

He raised an eyebrow, absently rubbing at his wrists. "And here I thought we were going to be civilised about this."

"Really, Mr Solo, I don't know where you got that idea from." At another nod, the same man stepped forwards holding a paper-thin grey jumpsuit. "I believe this should be your size. If not, well, it hardly matters really, does it? Now, come come, Mr Solo. Remove your clothes. Quickly now."

With a slight grimace he undressed, conscious of their eyes on him. A deliberate move, he thought. Dehumanising him. He reached for the jumpsuit expectantly but the Baron shook his head.

"Not quite yet, Mr Solo. Dr Vargas, if you would be so kind."

A tall bespectacled man he assumed to be Dr Vargas stepped forwards, holding a tray full of electrodes and wires which the silently started attaching to Napoleon's skin – his chest, his throat, his back and arms.

"Would you mind telling me what this is about?" he asked as Vargas pressed the electrodes against his temples.

"These will monitor your vital signs for us," the Baron explained. "Please do not try to remove them. If you do you will be in for a nasty shock. Quite literally, I'm afraid. They can deliver an electric shock measured just right to cause immense pain and suffering and leave you quite incapacitated, but not allow you unconsciousness. It really is marvellous what science can do for us these days, isn't it?"

"Marvellous," he agreed wryly.

"Now, dress if you would be so kind," the Baron said.

He took the jumpsuit and pulled it on, taking his time to straighten out the collar as best he could.

"Very good," the Baron nodded appreciatively. "You wear the garb of a captive well. Now, into the cage with you, Mr Solo. We shall return for you in time."

"I don't supposed you'd care to tell me how much time?" he asked as he was ushered into the cage. With three guns pointed at him there weren't really any other options.

"That rather depends on you." With that cryptic remark, they turned and walked out the door, leaving him alone.

Alright. So escape was obviously his first priority. He paced around the cage slowly, exploring his options. It was about five foot square, though thankfully the bars stretched up to the ceiling so he had enough room to stand. The only furnishing was a wooden bucket in the corner, and he wrinkled his nose at the thought. Yeah. He really wanted to get out of here before that became a necessity. The bars of the cage were thick and set deep into the concrete. No chance he'd be able to get through them without something seriously incendiary, and anything he might have had on him had been taken away with his clothes. The bars were close together as well – with an effort he could stick his forearm through, but no more than that. Certainly not enough to be useful. The lock was electronic, so there'd be no picking it even if he had anything to try with and – yes – there were surveillance cameras on all four walls of the torture room, pointing straight at him. Nowhere to hide, in other words. He'd have to assume someone was watching him twenty four seven, which meant that any escape would have to be largely instantaneous.

A tall order, he admitted to himself, as he sat against the bars, staring straight at the door. Realistically, the only way he was getting out of here was if someone opened the door. Which meant his best bet would be to try and overpower the guards when they came to interrogate him, or bring him food...always assuming, of course, that they did intend to feed him.

" _There is no such thing as an optimist in a foxhole._ " He smiled slightly to himself, imagining Illya's dry tones.

" _That's 'atheist'_ ," he remembered saying. " _There's no such thing as an_ atheist _in a foxhole._ "

Illya had affected an air of puzzlement. " _That doesn't make sense, Napoleon. I don't suddenly start believing in a God just because I'm in trouble._ "

'Well, _I_ don't suddenly become a fatalist just because _I'm_ in trouble." That was what he'd wanted to say, but their conversation had been interrupted by the need to jump out the airplane.

It still held true though. There would be a chance to get out of here. He made his own luck.

He wished Illya had been with him on this affair. An extra agent would have made all the difference. Doubly so if it was Illya. He wondered if he would have played things differently if he'd had Illya with him instead of Louie? Possibly. There might have been things he would've asked Illya to do that he wouldn't ask another agent. He had to admit they might just be too used to each other. Too familiar with the way the other thought and planned to work so well with others. Though, truthfully, before Illya he'd always preferred to work alone anyway.

At any rate, Illya had drawn the dignitary protection duty at the summit in New York, being the agent least likely to upset the GRU bodyguards, and most likely to spot if they were up to something. The summit had figured last night with no trouble he'd heard and that at least meant Illya would be free for Mr Waveley to send after him and the neurotoxin.

And really, Napoleon would prefer to get out of here before Illya found him. Illya was already two rescues up since the last time they'd agreed to wipe the slate clean, and Napoleon had no wish to inflate his ego anymore.

With a frown, he looked at the electrodes on his arms, wondering if he should risk trying to remove them. They would undoubtedly be able to trace him through these when he ran, but he had no reason to doubt that they were telling the truth about the electric shocks. There had to be some way to deactivate them, and somehow he'd have to do that _after_ he'd escaped.

He couldn't imagine he'd be waiting long for the Baron to come back. He'd never personally clashed with the man but he'd read the files and he was familiar with the man's work. Jonathan Halcutt-Harris, the self-styled 'Baron of London'. A rising star in THRUSH, Europe, known for his veneer of civilisation and for his quietly effective interrogations, surprisingly eschewing the drugs that THRUSH seemed to prefer. He preferred trading in intelligence and blackmail over direct action – this whole affair with the neurotoxin had been outside his usual operations, and with hindsight Napoleon wasn't surprised he'd apparently been under orders to deliver the vial elsewhere. No, the Baron probably regarded Napoleon himself as a far better prize, and that wasn't the most comforting conclusion he'd ever drawn.

With a sigh he leaned his head back against the bars and closed his eyes. He might as well try and get some rest before they came back. He rather thought he was going to need to be at his best.

The pain was sudden and sharp and immense. It felt like his whole body was on fire, convulsing from the inside out. He would have screamed but his jaw clenched tight and he couldn't...couldn't...

When his vision cleared he was lying on the floor, toppled onto his side, and he wasn't alone. The Baron was back with two of his largest goons. "Ah, Mr Solo," he smiled. "I did tell you that the pain was extraordinary."

But he hadn't tried to take the electrodes off. He struggled to sit up, shaking his head slowly.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you?" the Baron went on. "It is _extremely_ rude to fall asleep when you are a guest in someone's house."

"My apologies," he said, his voice a little hoarser than he would have liked. "I was just resting my eyes a moment."

"Oh, we know you were quite asleep," the Baron said sweetly. "We will always know."

With sudden understanding he glanced down at the electrodes on his wrist. So that was the game. "Well, that's certainly very voyeuristic of you," he said admiringly, surreptitiously flexing the muscles in his legs to see if there was any chance of him being able to spring into action when they opened the door. The echo of the pain seared through him. Doubtful. Very doubtful.

"And now my men will entertain you for a while," the Baron said, his smile somehow giving the impression of pointed teeth.

The cage door opened and the guard came towards him, arms outstretched, chuckling to himself. With an effort, Napoleon managed to sweep his leg around, tripping the guy and sending him tumbling to the floor. Huh. He hadn't actually expected that to work. Not wasting time, he quickly scrambled on top of the guy, searching for his gun, but when he finally found it he felt a large, meaty hand closing around his wrist and he was effortlessly – _painfully –_ hauled up until the gun dropped from his nerveless fingers.

He looked from the second guard to where the Baron was standing, apparently amused. "Ah, best out of three?" he suggested.

"No, I don't think so," the Baron said, shaking his head regretfully. "Karl? If you'd be so kind?"

The guard Napoleon had tripped lumbered to his feet with a scowl and drew back his fist.

Napoleon sighed and braced himself as best he could. This wasn't going to be fun.

He just had to hang on until he reached the point where he could escape.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter. I did promise myself I'd get it finished this weekend. I have, oh, twelve minutes before that self imposed deadline.

The sudden shrill sound of his communicator woke Illya from a peaceful sleep and his hand closed round the gun under his pillow before he fully registered what the noise was. He growled and plucked it off his nightstand's. "Kuryakin here," he said, not bothering to hide his displeasure, particularly when he glanced over at the clock and saw the time. Four o'clock in the morning was not a time he wanted to be awake.

"Mr Kuryakin, Mr Waverley wants to see you in his office as soon as possible." He recognised Linda's voice. Napoleon had had a fling with her oh, eighteen months ago? Other than that though she'd always struck him as rather sensible.

He propped himself up on one elbow. "It's my day off," he protested. "Tell him I'm on strike. No, tell him I am dead."

"Sorry, Illya," she said sympathetically. "He was very definite. Did you have plans?"

"I planned to sleep," he said with feeling, rolling out of bed with a sigh. "There are times I think we need a union. I'll be there as soon as possible."

He dressed quickly and was out the door within ten minutes. Grumbling aside, he very much doubted that Mr Waverley had called him in so early simply to torment him. Something, somewhere was wrong. Although really, something, somewhere always was.

He was tired though. The past week had hardly been physically demanding, but it had been...irksome. He was a man of a great many talents, but the art of patiently babysitting delegates and smoothing over their ruffled feathers was not among them. Mainly he had been responsible for liaising with the GRU and KGB agents, which mostly consisted of ensuring that their plotting against each other didn't get out of hand. By the end, he'd almost have welcomed an assassination attempt. Not least because one of the delegate's wives, a woman he knew to be very high up the Party in her own right had seemingly taken great delight in declaring loudly and frequently that his hair was a disgrace to the Soviet Union. He was only glad that Napoleon hadn't been there to hear it.

Perhaps Napoleon would be back by now. He'd been expecting to be heading back to New York last night.

The tailor shop was naturally closed at this time so he made his way in through the garage entrance, collected his badge and headed straight for Mr Waverley's office. The man himself was already there, looking just the same as ever. Absently, Illya wondered whether this was a very late night or a very early morning or whether, as the junior Section III agents maintained, he really did just never sleep. Then he took note of the other people in the room. Louie Framer was there, and a woman he recognised from her file as Dr Elsa Reed. There was no sign of Napoleon.

Long years of experience kept his face neutral. He nodded crisply. "Good morning."

"Ah, Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverley said. "We've been waiting for you."

"Sorry, sir," he said. "I got here as soon as I could. May I ask what's going on?" He wasn't directly asking about Napoleon. But it was still the question uppermost in his mind.

"You may well," Mr Waverley nodded. "As you are aware, Mr Solo and Mr Framer were tasked with retrieving this new neurotoxin - "

" - KL204," Dr Reed cut in quickly, pushing a bundle of notes across the table at him. He flicked through them quickly, taking note of the sheer lethality of the toxin. If THRUSH got their hands on this, the world was in trouble.

Mr Waverley's face didn't betray any annoyance at the interruption. "Indeed. They were tasked with retrieving the sample of KL204 and Dr Reed from Rushman laboratories in London before THRUSH got their hands on either. As you can see, Mr Framer has successfully returned with Dr Reed, however Mr Solo and the last remaining vial of KL204 are missing."

"Would it not have made more sense to destroy all samples?" he asked. He certainly couldn't see any use that UNCLE would have for something so dangerous.

Dr Reed scowled at him. "I was hoping to develop a counter-agent," she said stiffly. "What one woman can discover, another can recreate. KL204 was a mistake, one I wanted to correct."

It was a reasonable point, although looking at the specifications of how fast the toxin worked, Illya doubted the value of a counter-agent. "Do we know if THRUSH have the sample now?" he asked.

"Our information is that this so-called Baron of London captured both of them last night," Mr Waverley said, pressing a button and putting a picture of the Baron on the projector.

"Halcutt-Harris," he nodded. He'd had dealings with the man before, back when he was stationed in England. "This neurotoxin doesn't exactly sound like his style?"

"We believe he may have sent the sample to another facility," Mr Waverley agreed. "One of his men was spotted going alone to a private airfield. Unfortunately from there we lost track of him. He is likely to have been the courier."

We do know that the aeroplane had three hours worth of fuel though," Louie cut in with a degree of defensive enthusiasm which set Illya's teeth on edge.

"Which leaves us much of Western Europe to start the search in," he said. "And Mr Solo?"

"Unknown," Mr Waverley said. "However, if this Baron sent the neurotoxin away, he's likely to have kept hold of Mr Solo."

Yes. That would be Illya's guess as well. And he remembered enough of the Baron to know beyond all doubt that right now Napoleon would be suffering. "I assume you want me to retrieve this sample and make sure any work THRUSH has done on it is destroyed," he stated.

"Exactly, Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverley agreed. "And with all possible haste. This is a weapon we cannot allow THRUSH to possess."

"Wait a minute, what about Napoleon?" Dr Reed asked, enough naked worry in her voice for Illya to be sure that here was another of Napoleon's conquests.

He looked at her blandly. "Mr Solo's life is unimportant," he said simply. He could feel the weight of Mr Waverley's gaze on the side of his head, considering him.

She stared back. "How can you say that?" she demanded. "He's a human being. He risked everything trying to get that sample away."

"And he understands that stopping THRUSH comes first," Illya said with stone-cold certainty. "We are all expendable."

"Elsa, you understand the dangers of KL204 more than anyone," Louie said gently. "We can't let THRUSH have it."

"Exactly Mr Framer, " Mr Waverley agreed. "You will accompany Mr Kuryakin on this affair."

Illya looked at the junior agent. That certainly made sense. This mission was of the utmost important and he might well need backup. His feelings on the matter were entirely irrational, he knew. But Louie's own partner, Marco White, was still in hospital with a shattered femur, and now Napoleon had been captured, and somehow Illya found he just didn't want the man near him. To lose one partner was unfortunate, to lose two... "Of course, sir," he said however.

"I should come too," Elsa said determinedly.

Mr Waverley looked at him. He considered for a moment. From his brief perusal of the notes, he could see that the production process for the neurotoxin was complicated and involved. No one would know better than her exactly what THRUSH would need, and that knowledge might prove invaluable in finding the lab. "It will be dangerous," he warned. "But if you are sure."

"Of course I am," she said with a withering stare. "This is my responsibility."

He nodded. "Very well then. We'll leave at once."

On the way out, he stopped in records and requested all available files on any known or suspected THRUSH lab facilities in Western Europe. Anything for any kind of starting point, but the bundle of folders he got was almost too thick to carry. Without more leads, this could be a hopeless search.

He hesitated and turned back. "Can I also have the file on Jonathan Halcutt-Harris, alias the Baron?" he asked. "In particular, the records of his known interrogation techniques?"

Suzanne gazed up at him sympathetically as she passed it over.

He smiled darkly. "A little light reading for the plane."

* * *

He'd let himself drift off twice more, just to establish the pattern. Both times he was immediately woken in agony, and the Baron or his men came back to inflict a more physical pain. So far the torture was simple enough, as these things went. Beatings and electrocutions, nothing that would leave permanent damage and, more importantly, nothing that would cause him to succumb to unconsciousness. This was a marathon, not a sprint.

No matter what, he would endure.

Staying awake wasn't too difficult. Not yet, anyway. He knew the limits of his own body, eventually this would become a torture in itself. How long could a person stay awake? Illya would know, of course. In fact, if Illya was here, he'd probably be subjected to a lecture on the effects of sleep deprivation, and the likely time that each new symptom would appear.

In Korea, he'd once stayed awake for seventy nine hours. By the end, he'd been confused and paranoid; jumping at shadows, convinced he was hearing things that weren't there. He'd damn nearly shot his rescuers when they'd finally appeared. But, he'd survived then and he could now.

He groaned as he shifted on the concrete floor, trying to find any way to lie that was even remotely comfortable for his aching body. He wished he could stretch out. Though really, the pain and discomfort were only going to help him stay awake. See, Illya? There was always a silver lining, if you looked closely enough.

So far they'd left him alone as long as he stayed awake. After the second beating, he'd been left half a cup of water and a piece of stale bread, just outside the bars of his cage. The cup was a little too wide to fit through the bars, but he could press his mouth against them and pour the water into it. A messy process, but he was going to need all his strength, and he wasn't too proud to let the thought of some watching THRUSH guard laughing stop him.

Really, he'd been in far worse fixes than this.

He raised his head and looked straight at the camera and smiled. "Planning on boring me into talking?" he asked, with what he calculated to be just the right amount of insouciance.

Anger led to carelessness. And carelessness was always the quality he most looked for in his captors.

He wondered if Illya had found his message yet?

* * *

They started in London, since that was the last place he knew the neurotoxin had been. With Elsa's help, on the plane he'd narrowed the list of THRUSH laboratories down to six cities that had the required facilities. Of course, there was absolutely nothing to say that the neurotoxin hadn't been sent to some other facility that UNCLE didn't have a inkling of. But at any rate, he had the local offices in each city looking for any signs of unusual or suspicious activity. Hopefully someone would find something.

In the meantime, with Louie's help, he was trying to trace Napoleon's last steps in the hope that would give him something. Chasing down eyewitnesses had led him to a wall with the clear mark of a bullet impact. And a street or so over...

"Ulysses," he read, looking at the fresh paint.

"How can you be sure that was him?" Louie asked doubtfully.

"Because he signed it," Illya pointed out patiently. "See?"

Louie looked at him like he was crazy. "That says HC."

They really didn't have time for this. "And in the Russian alphabet it says NS," he said, his voice a little sharper than was strictly speaking necessary. "Napoleon Solo. He wanted to make sure I would notice and THRUSH wouldn't."

"That was a hell of a risk," Louie said slowly. "How did he know that you would be the one sent after him?"

Illya turned and looked at him. "Who else?" he asked blankly.

"Right." Louie looked away. "So, Ulysses. Greece somewhere?"

"Ireland," Illya corrected. "Dublin, to be exact. It's a reference to James Joyce's book of the same name." He gave the slightest smile to himself, remembering the conversation Napoleon would have been thinking of. And Dublin was one of the locations of a suspected THRUSH laboratory. Unfortunately, they had no more details than the city.

"Right," Louie said again, apparently satisfied with the explanation. "But is it pointing us to where the neurotoxin is, or where Napoleon is?"

"The neurotoxin," Illya said without the slightest hesitation. "That would be what Napoleon wanted to tell me...us." And now they were wasting time. He turned and started to walk away. They would go back to the hotel and pick up Elsa, and then they would head straight to Dublin. With the private jet they could be there in less than three hours.

"Wait a minute." He stopped as Louie jogged after him. "Um. I get the idea that you're not completely happy with having me along."

Illya gazed at him. "I'm sure you'll prove useful," he said dismissively.

"Sir, if you have a problem with me..." Louie trailed off.

He smiled tightly and took slight satisfaction in watching Louie take a half step back. "When you borrow another man's partner, good manners dictate you bring him back."

"Napoleon ordered me to leave," Louie protested immediately. "He said we had to make sure that THRUSH didn't get Elsa...Dr Reed...and the sample."

"And he was right," Illya agreed.

Louie blinked. "Then what was I supposed to do?" he asked.

Illya looked at him coldly. "Figure it out," he said.

He knew he wasn't being anywhere close to fair. But the world didn't owe anyone 'fair'. They were all expendable, like he'd said. That didn't mean he had to like it.

Elsa was waiting impatiently for them back in the hotel. "Well?" she said as soon as the door closed behind them.

"Napoleon left us a clue," Illya confirmed. "The sample has been taken to Dublin."

"And Napoleon?" she asked urgently.

"As far as we know he's still with the Baron," he said evenly.

"Then you should rescue him," she said sharply. "I know that retrieving KL204 is the priority but surely you can do both?"

Illya gazed at her steadily. "I assure you, Dr Reed, had UNCLE the first suspicion of where the Baron's base of operations is, we would have _already_ put a stop to him before this affair ever commenced. As it is, we don't know where to start looking. And so Dublin must come first."

"You just don't care, do you?" she said, her eyes bright with anger. "You know Napoleon could very well be being _tortured_ right now, did you ever think of that?"

He thought of the file on the Baron he'd read on the plane. There had been extensive interviews with a couple of the Baron's previous victims. One, a senior and respected MI5 officer, had actually been turned to the extent he had actually assassinated a cabinet minister, all because his fear of the Baron was greater than his sense of duty, or even his sense of self. Illya wanted to say there was no way Napoleon could be compromised in that way, but truthfully he knew all men had their limits.

"I should go and check in with Mr Waverley," he said indifferently and he heard her sigh of frustration as he walked into the next room. As always, Napoleon knew how to pick them.

Mr Waverley had evidently been expecting him. "Ah, Mr Kuryakin, what have you found out?"

"The sample has been taken to Dublin, sir, at least according to a message left by Mr Solo."

"Dublin," Mr Waverley repeated. "Very well, I will inform our Irish office to expect your arrival."

"Thank you sir," he said.

"You're certain that Mr Solo was passing on the location of the neurotoxin?" Mr Waverley asked keenly. "Not his own destination?"

"Beyond all doubt, sir," he said. "Napoleon...Mr Solo is well aware what the stakes are. He would not wish to risk us wasting time chasing after him."

"Very well, Mr Kuryakin." There was the barest of pauses. "I appreciate your dedication."

He stared down at the communicator for a long moment. Was that sympathy he had detected? Perhaps. Mr Waverley after all, was hardly blind to the bonds his Section II agents formed.

For all his cold certainty, for all his talk of duty and what Napoleon would expect, there was nothing he wanted more than to go chasing after Napoleon right now.

There were raised voices coming from the next room. He stepped closer to the doorway.

" - should be in charge! You're at least human," Elsa was storming.

"Illya is the senior agent," Louie said placatingly. "He's next in line to take over as head of Section II after Napoleon."

"No wonder he doesn't care to look for him then," she sniffed. "He's looking to his own self interests."

"No," Louie said definitely. "That's not fair. They're friends, everyone knows that. I doubt there's anyone who wants Napoleon back more." He ended his defence much more uncertainly than he'd began it.

"Friends?" She gave an unladylike snort. "I doubt that...that Russian marionette knows the meaning of the word. He's so cold. So foreign." She slipped into an exaggerated parody of a Russian accent. "'Mr Solo's life does not matter'. He's not even human! If that's what Napoleon calls a friend then I would hate to see his enemies."

"Yes," Illya said, stepping through the door. "You really would. I trust you have at least began packing?" He looked between the two of them. Louie looked guilty. Elsa, torn between embarrassment and righteous triumph. Neither of them moved.

Very well. He sighed. "As long as I am going to be relying on you, I suppose I should tell you. I do care. I simply cannot afford to show it."

She didn't look convinced. No real matter. Perhaps his admittance of weakness would be enough to soften her, just a little. They couldn't work while they were at each other's throats.

"I will see you downstairs," he said, grabbing his bag from where he'd left it.

He was well aware that he often came across as cold and aloof. It was an air that he had cultivated all his life, and even he wasn't altogether sure how much of it was an act. That didn't mean he didn't care and it certainly didn't mean he didn't _feel._ Napoleon knew how he felt. That was what mattered. Oh, they were hardly demonstrative in their affection, but their friendship was strong regardless. A hundred foolhardy rescues, a hundred half-missed orders spoke to that.

Napoleon knew Illya cared. And Napoleon knew that if he could just hang on long enough, somehow, Illya would come for him.

* * *

Normally Napoleon had an extremely good sense of time but the lack of sleep and the constant artificial light was throwing him off. It was difficult to know whether five minutes had passed or an hour, and that was...unsettling.

He'd taken to running his thumb along his jaw line, checking the stubble. He'd shaved the morning before he was captured, so he figured it was probably coming up for two days since then.

Two days without sleep was nothing, really. He did that regularly. But he was tired. Actually that wasn't even the word of it. The physical punishment wasn't helping, of course. That was exhausting in its own right.

Already his mind felt more sluggish than usual, his reflexes not quite as sharp as he'd like. So far no one had asked him any questions; that would come later he guessed. Knowing what they wanted to know too early would only help him, let him invent some fiction to decoy them with. Trouble was, he didn't know exactly what they would ask. He really wasn't holding any earth-shattering secrets this month, but just the usual day to day stuff – names of UNCLE agents, daily routines, security details, locations – even that could be enough to cause devastation.

It was difficult to keep his mind from wandering. He wondered what Elsa was doing now. Hopefully she'd be able to build a new life for herself. As deadly-neurotoxin-inventing biochemists went, she was very lovely. It helped that she had been more horrified than anyone by her discovery, of course. He remembered the gentle agony in her eyes as she'd lain in his arms.

" _I was trying to invent a non-lethal nerve gas," she'd confessed. "All the tests and simulations said it would just cause paralysis. And then we moved to animal trials..."_

_He remembered the data packet he'd studied and held back the shudder with an effort. "Not non-lethal."_

" _No," she'd whispered. "And then Dr Rushman saw the results, and he contacted THRUSH and wouldn't let me leave. Oh, Napoleon, I thought he was going to kill me! I never meant for any of this to happen. I didn't want anyone to get hurt."_

He'd promised her that no one would be, and he rubbed at the bruises on his shoulder with a sigh. He supposed that what he'd really meant was that _she_ wouldn't be hurt. Louie would have got her safe. He had to believe that.

It was cold in here. He _was_ underground, he supposed. Probably. Just one more way to keep him uncomfortable.

Two days. Illya was probably in Dublin by now, if everything was going to plan. He could trust that Illya would find the lab and stop the neurotoxin from going into production, and that wasn't just blind optimism, that was trust and confidence. He could depend on Illya in a way he'd never depended on anyone.

He remembered one of their first assignments together, in a little town on the edge of the Everglades. Back then he'd learned to trust Illya's judgement and skill, his quick wits and his deadly competence, but he hadn't yet learned to understand the dry humour and the fierce loyalty well enough to admit to himself that his new partner was, in fact, his new friend. And some of that, to his shame, was the old anti-Soviet prejudice that had made him protest the partnership to Mr Waverley in the first place. So ridiculous to remember now.

_Napoleon had retrieved the code book and Illya had set the charges, and the base had been destroyed all right, but reinforcements had come out of nowhere just as they were leaving, and now they were running for their lives while a legion of THRUSH guards shot wildly after them._

_He looked round with a grin as a stray bullet split a tree about twenty feet to their right. "Do you think that THRUSH train their guys at all?" he called. "Or do you think that they just give them a gun and tell them which end the bullet comes out?"_

" _Napoleon, look out!" Illya shouted, and he leapt sideways, shoving Napoleon to the side, and he felt the impact shuddering through both of them._

_Instinctively he wrapped his arm around Illya's waist, hauling him up and keeping moving before either of them had a chance to fall. "Where are you hit?" he asked urgently._

" _My side," Illya gasped. "A flesh wound. I think."_

" _I'd prefer it if you were a little more certain," he said grimly. "You shouldn't have done that." There was no sense to it._

" _You are the senior agent," Illya said, his voice sounding a little slurred. "It is my responsibility to...to - "_

" _\- that's not how it works," Napoleon said, with a certain disregard for the facts. "I don't expect you to save my life."_

_Illya twisted his head around and looked up at him, a bright glint in his eye."Save your life? Oh, no, my friend. This was the most practical of reasons. If one of us must carry the other, well, you are far heavier than I."_

"Far heavier?" he repeated with incredulous amusement, and he looked round the room, and just for a second he didn't understand why he was suddenly alone. Damn. "Illya..." he said softly.

Perhaps that whole bit about boring him into talking wasn't as far fetched as he'd thought.

He stood up and tried walking around for a while, checking and rechecking every bar, just in case there was some weak spot somewhere, something that he'd somehow missed. There wasn't, of course, and after eighty-six circuits, he sat down again feeling tired and foolish and frustrated.

This time, when his eyes drifted closed, it was an accident.

This time he wasn't woken by pain but by a rough pair of hands shaking his shoulder and dragging him upwards.

He struck out blindly, disorientated and confused, but he was effortlessly overpowered and cuffed against the bars of the cage.

"Good morning, Mr Solo," the Baron said cheerfully. "I trust you had a pleasant sleep? We decided to let you rest for a while this time. It's been, oh, just over nine hours."

No. No, that wasn't right. That wasn't possible. He'd only closed his eyes for a couple of moments. He shook his head slowly. He certainly didn't _feel_ like he'd been asleep for nine hours. "You're lying," he said, trying to sound certain. The Baron was wearing a new suit since the last time Napoleon had seen him, and it didn't quite look fresh on, but what did that mean, after all? A man could easily change his clothes. He hadn't slept that long. There was no chance they'd let him sleep that long. And yet he just wasn't quite _sure._

The Baron just laughed. "If you like," he said with a shrug. He nodded to one of his men who pulled a cut throat razor out of his pocket and stepped forwards. "I should stay very still, if I were you," he advised.

Napoleon did, his eyes fixed on the blade coming towards his face. He kept his face blank. No matter what, he wasn't going to give the Baron the reaction he was looking for, even though he was imagining pain and mutilation.

It came as a surprise when the man simply began shaving him. He wasn't quite quick enough to hide the flicker of relief in his eyes.

The Baron laughed again. "Not what you were expecting, Mr Solo?"

"No," he said, still being careful not to move. "No, I normally start with shaving cream." His mind raced. Why were they doing this? He'd been checking his stubble to guess at the time...

"Dear me, are you expressing disappointment in my hospitality, Mr Solo?" the Baron said, clicking his tongue. "That is rather discourteous of you."

"Well," he said with a slow smile. "You are rather a lousy host."

To his surprise, a brief spasm of anger crossed the Baron's face. He turned away for a second and lifted a length of heavy, knotted rope from one of the tables. "I do think I'm going to need to teach you some manners," he said, swinging it experimentally against the floor, and the loud, smacking sound made Napoleon wince. "Oh, you may be interested to know that I've had a message back from our laboratory. They are very happy with the neurotoxin you helped us obtain. Apparently the reverse engineering process is going remarkably well. It's nice to share these little victories, don't you think?"

He bit his tongue lightly. That was hardly a victory. Illya had better hurry.

"Well," the Baron said brightly, drawing the rope back ready to swing. "Shall we begin?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think so far.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer than I was expecting. And it also is longer. So go figure. Actually, it was the first section that took the time, the rest felt far more natural.

There was water in his lungs. He could feel it crackling unpleasantly in his chest as he breathed. He'd fallen asleep again, and this time, after the pain woke him, the Baron had been there with a barrel of water and his men had tied his hands behind his back with wire and held him under and pulled him out, choking and spluttering, time and again until he was on the verge of passing out. They didn't let him, of course. Those little electrodes told them exactly how much he could take and they stopped just shy of that, because unconsciousness would be a relief.

Time had passed, Napoleon knew, though he was very far from certain how much. They'd brought him bread and water four more times, which instinctively meant he wanted to say four days, but the time between seemed irregular. It wasn't frequent enough anyway. The hunger didn't go away and he was pretty sure the constant headache was from a mixture of exhaustion and dehydration. His vision was fuzzy too, and he kept seeing dark flashes at the corner of his eyes.

Maybe the near-drowning experience would help with the dehydration at least. He'd certainly ended up swallowing some of the water along the way. He had hoped that perhaps the water might short out the electrodes, but the Baron had evidently anticipated that hope and he'd taken great pleasure it demonstrating that it wasn't so. He should probably try and take one of these things back with him, when he got out of here. R&D would probably be very interested in the technology.

And speaking of getting out of here...

This was a rest to let him recover just enough that they could continue, and he tried to look exhausted which, in the circumstances, wasn't exactly difficult. Meanwhile, behind his back, his hands were busy pulling at the wire that was digging into his wrists. If he just had a bit more time he could unhook a piece of it, and that might work later to short the lock on the cage door and force it open. He just had to keep the Baron talking a while longer. That at least should be easy enough, and he could almost hear Illya's dry voice commenting on the dangers of ego.

" - the London Section II agents," the Baron was saying insistently. "Come now, Mr Solo, I already know this. Sebastian Marlborough, Kenneth MacDuff...why don't you finish the set? It will give us something to talk about that doesn't involve you being half-drowned."

"Well, if you're just looking for conversation, there are plenty of things we could talk about," he said as brightly as he could. "Why don't you tell me the current location of THRUSH central?" Really, he thought that the Baron probably _did_ already know the London agents, or at least most of them. This was a warm up question at best. One he had no intention of answering. "Come on, if you really believe I'm never getting out of here, there's no harm in you telling me, is there?"

The Baron laughed appreciatively. "A fair point, Mr Solo. Very well. They're currently based in Innsbruck, in the Tyrolean region of the Alps."

"And if I believe that, you've got a bridge you'd like to sell me," he said ironically.

"Perhaps," the Baron smiled. "But perhaps I'm telling you the truth. You'll never know for sure, will you?"

An unsettling thought. The exposed end of the wire grazed painfully over his fingers. His hands were clumsy.

"Still, if you do wish to talk about something else," the Baron went on. "You're normally partnered with Illya Kuryakin, isn't that right? Very blond, rather small, with an unhealthy relationship with explosives?"

He kept his face perfectly blank. Illya wasn't here to be used against him – thankfully – but he still wasn't going to give anything away.

The Baron nodded thoughtfully. "I remember him from when he was stationed in London previously. Oh, we never directly encountered one another, but he _was_ directly responsible for the deaths of three of my men and the destruction of my favourite car. Yes, several memos crossed my desk suggesting that young man would go far. I strongly advocated assassinating him before that happened, but my superiors found other priorities." He sighed heavily.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "Are you expecting me to express my sympathies?" he asked – lightly, as if the casual way he talked about Illya's murder didn't bother him in the slightest. He had to hide the fact that they were any more than colleagues. Of course, the ship had almost certainly long sailed on that one. There were probably THRUSH memos circulated about their friendship too.

"Hardly that, Mr Solo," the Baron said affably. "I'm simply attempting to seek out some common ground."

"Uh huh," Napoleon said slowly, surreptitiously twisting around to be sure his hands were completely covered. He could feel the wire coming loose.

"Oh, it may interest you to know that our lab has started mass production of the neurotoxin," the Baron said.

That couldn't be right. Not so quickly. From everything Elsa had said it was an extraordinarily complicated process. However long he'd been here, surely it couldn't have been long enough for them to start production.

"Unfortunately," the Baron went on with a pained grimace. "We have been having some...minor disagreements...as to the most effective city to target first. As I was the one responsible for delivering the sample I've been asked for my opinion. And, since obviously, Mr Solo, none of this would have been possible without your contribution, I thought I would ask _your_ opinion."

For a long moment he just stared, his hands frozen and forgotten.

"We have decided that we should strike first against a city with a high population density," the Baron went on. "A maximum number of civilian casualties will let all the world know how serious we are. Bombay is a very tempting target. You may be aware that the Indian government recently arrested several of our high ranking personnel thanks, in part, to UNCLE action. Showing the consequences for such foolishness would be a show of strength." He sighed. "Unfortunately it has been pointed out that such a show would not necessarily have the desired effect on the USSR or the Western world. All too often non-white casualties are seen as statistics, not tragedies." With a click of his tongue, he shook his head. "It's very sad."

"I'm surprised to hear that sentiment from a man like you," Napoleon said.

The Baron raised an eyebrow. "Because I am THRUSH? My dear Mr Solo, when we take over we shall put an end to these inane prejudices. The value of human life can't be measured by nationality or skin tone. That's one of the few points where your organisation and mine agree."

"Of course, THRUSH believes that the value of human life is directly based on what value that life has to THRUSH," Napoleon pointed out.

"Whereas UNCLE believes that all human life has value," the Baron said with a smile. "Excepting, of course, the lives of its own agents. Do you know, I increased security here expecting that someone would be along to rescue you. We haven't caught so much as a whiff of another UNCLE agent. You've been quite abandoned, Mr Solo."

"Of course," he said. That was no more than he'd expect. The neurotoxin came first, especially if THRUSH was getting close to completing it.

"This is all rather besides the point anyway," the Baron said. "So Bombay has the problem of relevance, but our other target, New York..." He paused, watching Napoleon closely. "That _is_ your home, isn't it? New York?"

"I'm sure it's all in my file," he said, trying to keep his voice even. Of course it was, and he tried not to think of all the people he knew.

"Yes, well, several high ranking THRUSH officials have argued strongly against attacking New York in such a way." He sighed. "Favourite restaurants and theatres have been mentioned, I'm afraid. Ridiculous to put such personal petty concerns forwards that way, but then I suppose I would probably be the same thing if it was the destruction of London under discussion. Somewhat more forgiveable is the argument that we might end up causing more destruction than we really intended. So much of the world's financial power is tied up in New York. Some of our economists are concerned that it could have dire consequences, which might just work to our disadvantage. But we must be prepared to take risks, and it would be a more high profile target. So tell me, Mr Solo. What do you think we should do?"

"Surrender," Napoleon said, baring his teeth.

The Baron laughed appreciatively. "No, really," he said. "You're known to be a brilliant tactical thinker. If you were of a mind to kill a million people, what would you do?"

"I'd kill myself," he said, staring straight up at the Baron calmly The wire came apart in his fingers and he resisted the urge to smile. Now if he just tucked the end up his sleeve...

The Baron looked down at him, all humour gone. "Thank you, Mr Solo," he said "Once again your assistance has been invaluable. I see now that I must think of this as I would an interrogation. The world is my subject and I want to break it. And so the first initial shock of pain should be followed by the more measured threat with the lingering promise of just how bad it can get. I will suggest that we first conduct a large scale attack on the civilian population of Bombay and then follow it up with a targeted attack on New York...government buildings, military facilities, and, of course, UNCLE headquarters. I rather think that will get across our message very nicely."

His mouth was dry. "It's never going to happen," he said with a confidence he didn't feel.

"The important thing when using pain as a means of persuasion is to avoid crossing certain lines. Once a certain amount of damage has been caused, all you can offer your victim is death. Not a great long term strategy as you can imagine. Hence why the smaller scale attack on New York City is preferable." Without warning, he suddenly lashed out with his foot, kicking Napoleon squarely on the back of the head. He pitched forwards with a soft grunt of pain, and the Baron was on him immediately, tearing the piece of wire from his hand. "You, for example, Mr Solo, still believe that you can escape. A harmless fantasy which keeps your mind intact for now and therefore keeps you of potential use." He held the wire in front of Napoleon's face as he sat back up. "Tsk, tsk. A poor attempt, Mr Solo. Tired men telegraph their every move and thought, and you are so very tired, aren't you?"

"Well, I admit, I could use a coffee," Napoleon said with a brittle smile.

"You know, if you told me what I want to know, I might just bring you one," the Baron said, signalling his men to untie Napoleon's hands and force him back into the cage. "Who knows? I might even be prepared to throw in a pillow and a few peaceful hours sleep. But for now, Mr Solo, I must call my superiors and suggest we attack both Bombay and New York. I will be certain to let them know this inspiration came from you."

In a blink, Napoleon was alone again, and he let his body sag. He was exhausted, and not just physically. THRUSH _couldn't_ be that close to deploying the toxin, could they? God, he didn't know and he just couldn't _think._ His mind was heavy.

If he had dropped the vial... _no!_ Three hundred people, remember? No one was dead. Not yet. There was still time. Illya would stop THRUSH and then, if Napoleon hadn't got out of here on his own, Illya would come find him. There was still time. He had to hang onto that.

* * *

They'd been in Dublin three days now without finding any substantial leads. Illya was beginning to chafe at the inactivity. The local office had good people and they'd got a list of all the unusual goods coming into the city, and he'd sat going through them all with Elsa, but nothing had turned up. Either they weren't far enough along enough to have started production, or more pessimistically, they were so far along they didn't need any more materials. Or, even worse, they were looking in the wrong place altogether, but Illya wasn't going to consider that seriously. Napoleon had risked his life to tell him Dublin, so Dublin it would be.

Eoin Callaghan brought him a coffee. "We've been keeping a close eye on all the usual THRUSH haunts, Illya. There's still nothing suspicious going on. No one new in town that we can tell."

"Thank you," he said, sipping the coffee slowly. He really needed to get some sleep.

"Is there any word from Napoleon?" Eoin asked.

"No," he said shortly.

"Shame," Eoin said with a regretful sigh. "I remember the last time the two of you were in town we had a rare old time. He was a good man."

"Is," Illya corrected automatically.

"Of course," Eoin said with a grimace. "Sorry. I didn't mean nothing."

Louie walked over with a fresh set of files from Elsa. "Nothing in any of these either," he reported.

At this stage, Illya was hardly surprised. He gazed across the room to where Elsa had her head down on a pile of street maps.

"Gentlemen?" he said slowly. "I think, perhaps, the time has come to do something more drastic. I think we need to consider giving THRUSH almost exactly what they want."

* * *

Dark, smoke-filled bars where everyone wore tinted shades were such a cliché, Illya thought as he surveyed the room. But then, THRUSH had always been partial to cliché. Eoin had told him that this was a THRUSH rendezvous point, and that was good enough for him. Besides, the band was surprisingly good.

Absently, he smoothed his hair back. It had been darkened specially and heavily brylcreemed. Hopefully with the false moustache and cheek pads that should be enough to stop any suspicious birds from recognising him.

Speaking of which...he glanced surreptitiously over to the table in the far corner and mentally compared the men against the pictures he'd seen in the file. Yes. He was certain.

He picked up his drink for cover as he spoke softly into the microphone on his sleeve. "Send her in."

They needed to get this right first time. If they had to replay this little scene he had no doubt THRUSH would get suspicious.

A few moments later, Elsa walked in, hesitating at the top of the stairs and looking round nervously in a way that was sure to garner attention. Not a bad acting job...although of course it could be that she really _was_ nervous.

Hurriedly, she walked down the stairs and crossed directly to his table. He stood up with a warm smile and clasped her hand. "Smile," he murmured. "Remember you are supposed to be pleased to see me."

"I _am_ pleased to see you," she said fervently. "I don't like this place."

"Courage, Elsa," he said softly as he guided her to her seat. He could feel they were being watched. "It's just for a few minutes and Eoin and his people are right outside to keep you safe. They'll take care of you."

"And who's going to take care of you?" she asked.

He resisted the urge to remind her that she didn't _actually_ like him, and simply kept up the air of intimacy. "I can take care of myself," he told her.

She blinked twice. "That's what Napoleon said."

"And he was probably right," Illya said calmly.

"Everyone else thinks he's dead," she said slowly. "Or as good as, anyway. Even Louie. They're not _saying_ , but I can tell."

Really, this wasn't the time or the place for this conversation, but he thought the intensity might just give them exactly what they were looking for. He didn't break eye contact. "But I know him best." He paused for a second. "It's time. Quickly, now."

Fumbling, she drew a large envelope out of her handbag and passed it over to him.

"Careful!" he hissed loudly, making a show of looking round dramatically, before tucking it securely inside his jacket. He very much doubted that any THRUSH onlooker worth their salt could possibly have missed that.

Right on time, the door crashed open and Eoin and a few of his compatriots came down the stairs, guns drawn and ready.

He stood and swore unpleasantly at Elsa. "You double crossed me!" he spat, just as Eoin reached the table and grabbed Elsa's arm.

"Dr Reid, we need to take you back. It's not safe here," he said.

"Out of the corner of his eye, Illya could see the table of THRUSH men watching, evidently realising this wasn't the time to intervene.

The way he saw it, no matter what stage of the process THRUSH were at, the co-option of the original scientist involved would be irresistible. And if she was out of reach...

"And you," Eoin said, reaching towards him, but Illya threw a quick punch at his jaw and when he fell, made a run for the back door, the envelope clutched prominently against his chest.

….Whatever the scientist had passed on was bound to attract THRUSH's attention.

He quickly made his way out of the back streets and onto the main road, keeping a sharp eye out all the while. It was raining heavily, but he could still hear the hurried footsteps behind him. Someone trying – and failing – to be very quiet. He lifted his head to brush the rain off his face and spoke into his sleeve. "I'm definitely being followed," he said.

Ideally, he would lead them back to the hotel. If they _did_ decide to take him straight off the street,

well, he had a couple of tracers on him, but that was definitely not his preferred option here.

He scanned the roof tops on either side of the street, alert for ambush. Playing bait was hardly a new experience for him, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it. And, he admitted to himself, it always felt different when Napoleon wasn't here to watch his back.

To his relief he reached the hotel without an incident, and went straight up to the room. Second floor next to a perfectly climbable trellis. This was basically like extending an open invitation.

He gave it twenty minutes before he turned off the light and lay down on the bed.

Strange to think how much he relied on Napoleon. Even now, knowing that he had back-up, that he wasn't technically alone, he still felt a hundred times more vulnerable than he would if he knew it was Napoleon waiting in the next room. Maybe that wasn't so strange. After all, Napoleon had never let him down.

He sighed softly. So people were already counting Napoleon as lost? He supposed he wasn't surprised. To all intents and purposes, they had abandoned Napoleon right now...a fact that sat badly with him. Still, he wondered how often he and Napoleon had been believed to be dead over their careers? That was probably the sort of question that he was happier not having answered.

He remembered one of their early assignments together. They'd been retrieving a THRUSH codebook in the Everglades. He'd been careless enough to get shot, and they'd been cut off from help.

_Infection had set in rapidly and Illya had quickly lost the strength to run or even walk. They'd lost their pursuers for the moment, and Napoleon had found what could charitably be called a shack on the piece of ground in the middle of the swamp. He'd said they could rest here awhile, ignoring Illya's protests. Napoleon needed to leave. They had to retrieve the codebook, and the only way out now was to go straight through the swamp to the other road. A trek that currently Napoleon could manage and Illya could not. The only sensible course of action here was for Napoleon to leave him behind._

_If he was being truthful with himself, that wasn't just about the codebook. He wanted Napoleon to live. When he'd first been assigned to the New York office and instructed to work with Napoleon, he'd been uncertain at first. He was well aware of the attitudes most had towards him, and while Napoleon had always been polite and respectful – unlike some – he'd also been slightly wary. And then over the course of a couple of assignments, that had melted away. Illya had worked alongside Westerners for a few years now and he was well aware that contrary to what he'd been told, they weren't all obsessed with their own self-gratification and selfish interests. He'd been expecting Napoleon to be competent and skilled and good to work with, and he was. He hadn't been expecting the wealth of easy conversation, or the routine of coffee in the morning and drinks after a missions, and certainly not the sly shared smiles at briefings as Napoleon brought him into their own private jokes. He hadn't been expecting the silences to feel comfortable. He hadn't been expecting a friend._

_Napoleon walked back into the room with a pitcher and some rags. "I couldn't find any alcohol, but there was a primus stove so I managed to boil up some water. That should help."_

_He managed to stand up off the mouldering sofa and take a few steps backwards. His legs were shaking though, and he had to grab the back of the sofa for support. "You need to leave me, Napoleon. It's the only sensible thing to do. If you stay, they will find us both."_

" _Not necessarily," Napoleon said, eyeing him carefully. "Now, sit down and let me take care of - "_

" _\- nyet! Ostav'te!" he insisted, hoping, somehow, that if Napoleon couldn't understand he'd be more inclined to just leave._

" _You don't get any more persuasive in Russian you know," Napoleon told him, advancing towards him._

_Alright. He needed to drive Napoleon away. Curling his hands, he thought of a KGB colonel he'd used to serve under, Ruslan Bortsov, and he drew himself up tall and fixed Napoleon with a contemptuous sneer. "Typical American burzhui, refusing to see what is under your nose. So busy chasing girls that you cannot see the big picture. You would throw away our only chance at getting these codes back because you want to play hero, like John Wayne? You sicken me. You should be ashamed."_

_Napoleon gazed at him with interest. "Do you know you always curl your fingers up before you slip into a part?" he asked. "It's a dead give away. You should really work on that."_

_Oh. He found himself looking down at his hands stupidly. "No one's ever noticed before."_

" _It was very good though," Napoleon added. "I especially liked the part about the girls."_

" _Of course you did," he said automatically, and when Napoleon smiled he couldn't resist smiling back._

" _I'm not leaving you behind, Illya," Napoleon said quietly. "It's pointless wasting time arguing about it. So why don't you sit down before you fall down, I'll get to work cleaning that bullet wound, and then we can put our heads together and figure out how we'll both get out of here."_

_Napoleon's eyes were absolutely serious for once. He meant every word of it. And Illya thought that maybe it wasn't just the fever making him warm._

_Then Napoleon smiled. "Besides," he said. "Like you said, partner mine. If one of us has to carry the other, you're far smaller than I."_

" _I believe I said lighter," Illya said dryly. "In fact - "_

A sound below the window had him immediately alert. At last. He didn't move and kept his breathing steady, even as he heard the window being eased open and the soft footfalls coming towards the bed. It wasn't until he felt the figure leaning over him that he sprang upwards, his eyes snapping open and his hand closing around the intruder's throat. He threw him back against the wall, punching him in the face, before casually reaching out and flicking the light switch. "Good evening," he said, with what wasn't quite a pleasant smile.

The man – one of the THRUSH agents he'd spotted at the bar – made a soft choking noise, his eyes wide.

"I imagine you're looking for Dr Reed's notes," Illya went on, leaning heavily against his chest, practically pushing him through the wall. "Unfortunately for you, that's not going to happen. Even more unfortunately, there is some information that I am most anxious to acquire, and to be perfectly honest, I'm carrying around a lot of anger this week. I'm afraid you're going to have a _very_ bad night."

The man's face had gone almost completely white. Very briefly, Illya considered the sheer inconvenience if he went and died of a heart attach. Then he froze and half turned to look over his shoulder towards the door, as if he'd heard something. Thankfully, the agent possessed enough wit to take advantage of his distraction and shove him back, before making a sprint for the window.

"Stop!" Illya shoved, moving with all appearance of haste to chase after him. He watched with satisfaction as the man scrambled down the trellis before dropping into the street and running for a nearby car. "And we're done," he said aloud.

"Did you plant the transmitter?" Louie asked, coming into the room through the adjoining door.

"Of course," Illya said, straightening his jacket. He sighed. "They only sent one man. I feel somewhat insulted."

"I'm sure if they'd known it was you they would have sent in an army," Louie said with a grimace.

"Did Eoin get Dr Reid okay?" he asked.

"Yes," Louie nodded. "She's safely back at the office. Oh, and Eoin says you could have pulled that punch."

He shook his head. "It was necessary for verisimilitude."

"So," Louie said. "All we need to do now is wait until that THRUSH birdie runs home and follow him, is that right?"

"That's the plan," Illya agreed.

* * *

The tracker led them straight to a previously unknown THRUSH facility below a meat packing factory, and several hours of surveillance showed them that there was likely only one main entrance. There was no way, unfortunately, of knowing just how many emergency exits there was. The lack of certainty made him uneasy. Normally he'd prefer to send an agent – or rather, himself – in first to infiltrate the base and properly assess the situation, but he'd spoken to Mr Waverley and they'd both agreed there was no time for that. This toxin was too much of a threat and they had no way of knowing how far along THRUSH was. The fact that they were making it in an urban residential area was worrying in itself.

At least the new geophysics equipment that Section VIII had been working on had done its job, and they had a general plan of the area below. He looked over to the warehouse entrance, the strike team of twelve Section II agents spread out behind him. They'd take the base while a larger team of Section III agents staked out the surrounding streets, just in case. And they had Elsa standing by, ready to assist in safely disposing of the neurotoxin they found. They were prepared, and as far as they were aware, they still had the element of surprise. And yet he still felt uneasy.

"Illya?" Louie asked, his communicator in his hand.

He gave a crisp nod. "Let's go."

* * *

The world was painted in shades of grey. It was like there was a thick fog blanketing everything, and Napoleon found he just couldn't think past the haze. His eyes ached. Actually, everything ached, and holding a train of thought together was becoming impossible.

It was getting hard to tell what was real. For a while he'd been convinced he could smell Mr Waverley's pipe tobacco, and he could almost swear he'd heard Angelique's laugh coming from just behind the door. He'd been so certain that he'd even spent time figuring out exactly what he could say to persuade her to let him out. He'd imagined her mocking him, even growing angry, and he could picture her sharp smile...but she wasn't here. Probably she never had been.

And he kept feeling someone was standing right behind him. Sometimes he could even feel their breath on the back of his neck, and he'd twist round, cry out, only to be confronted with empty space.

He tried not to look at the cameras. He could imagine them watching him – laughing – and there was a part of him that longed to throw things, to shout and rage and just somehow tear this place apart.

He had to get out of here. He had to get word to UNCLE about the attacks. But nothing was working. In desperation, he'd even tried the old trick of faking an illness, hoping they'd come check on him, but they'd shocked him first so he couldn't move, and then they'd beaten him for the attempt.

The Baron kept the key to this cage securely pinned to his lapel. If he could just get his hands on it...but unsurprisingly, he didn't come near Napoleon unless Napoleon's hands were secured. He was running out of options. There was always supposed to be a chance...but what if he'd missed it?

He needed to sleep. His eyes were so dry...He pinched his wrist to try and keep himself awake.

Strangely, he had a sneaking suspicion that the Baron had let him sleep a couple of times. Oh, not for long, he was sure, but once or twice he thought he remembered dreaming before he'd woken to the agony, and he'd been more disorientated than usual. There was probably a formula somewhere. Exactly how much sleep they could allow him to keep him from burning out too soon, while still keeping him feeling like _this._

He pinched his wrist again.

The sound of the door opening seemed to come from somewhere far away and he found himself staring at the Baron and his usual escort for a long moment before realising they were actually here.

The Baron was smiling broadly. Instinctively, Napoleon distrusted that smile. It didn't look real. "Good morning, Mr Solo," he said sharply. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. It appears your organisation believed your little message about our facility in Dublin."

"What message?" he asked carefully, his tongue feeling thick and unwieldy.

"Oh, you know," the Baron said. "I made a point of telling one of my men in front of you to take the sample to our Dublin facility, then I allowed you to escape so you could tell UNCLE."

Allowed...? "No," he said shaking his head slowly.

" _Yes,"_ the Baron corrected gently. "I'm afraid Dublin was a trap. A very successful one, I might add."

"You're lying," Napoleon insisted.

"I'm afraid not," the Baron told him. "The UNCLE forces were led by young Mr Kuryakin. I suppose he would have been more inclined to trust the information, knowing it came from you. Or do you think that maybe he thought you were being held there, and was anxious to try and rescue you? I suppose we'll never know."

Illya... "No," he said again. "No, I won't believe it. You're lying."

"Denial is an ugly state of mind," the Baron chided. "You know, I had requested they send Mr Kuryakin here to me for interrogation. I thought that his presence would encourage you to talk. Unfortunately..." He signalled to one of his men who passed him a photograph which he delicately dropped through the bars of the cage.

Napoleon stared down at it for a long moment. Illya lying on the ground, his blond hair matted with blood. The bullet hole through the centre of his forehead was unmistakable.

"As you can see," the Baron said softly, leaning up against the side of the cage. "I'm not lying. If I wanted to lie to you I would tell you he died cursing your name, or begging for mercy. But actually, I'm told he died bravely. I doubt that's much of a comfort to you though, is it? Napoleon?"

He raised his head slowly. Then time slipped a little and his hands were wrapped round the Baron's lapels and he was efficiently slamming the man's face against the metal bars of the cage, again and again and again, until the electric fire coursed through him, throwing him backwards.

Shakily, the Baron stepped back, wiping the blood from his face. "Do not shoot the messenger, Mr Solo. Your friend's blood isn't on my hands. And after I was nice enough to bring you down a radio. I thought you might be interested in keeping up with current events."

One of the men put a small radio on the counter and turned it on and the upper-class English voice echoed through the room.

" - the World Service. I'm speaking to you now from the five mile exclusion zone outside the Indian city of Bombay, which earlier today fell victim to a devastating chemical attack. The scene around me is one of unimaginable human suffering..."

The sound of people crying swelled over the reporter's voice. Men, women, children...it sounded like hell on earth.

"...already the death toll is believed to be over forty thousand," the reported continued, his voice shaking just a little. "And unconfirmed reports suggest this is only going to rise."

"I bet you wish you'd dropped the vial back in that alley now, don't you?" the Baron asked softly. "All those people...and you could have stopped it. You could have stopped it all. You failed, Napoleon. And because of you, Illya Kuryakin is dead. Remember that."

He swept out and Napoleon barely noticed. The cries of the dying echoed in his ears. He stared down at the photo still lying on the ground, not daring to touch it. Illya...

The sob took him by surprise, hoarse emotion ripped from his throat. He had failed. He had failed in every way imaginable. And he knew, on some level, that this reaction came from his exhaustion. The emotions were real – his – thousands of people were dead, _Illya_ was _dead,_ but he would never let them show. But it didn't seem to matter now. Let THRUSH see him broken.

Hidden from sight, his hand curled tightly around the Baron's key.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading - I'd be very interested to know what you think.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry this chapter took a little longer than I expected - there's just one more to go now though. Four chapters and an epilogue. If I'd called them Acts to begin with, I might have managed to look clever. :)

Illya looked out the glass window overlooking the main floor of the THRUSH base with a feeling of quiet discontent. The attack had been a complete success with no casualties to their side, and it seemed THRUSH had made limited progress replicating KL204 so far – although some of their experiments seemed to have been lethal enough in their own right. Still, they had the base, Elsa was supervising the safe decommissioning of the equipment and even now they were searching through THRUSH computer banks and records for any useful information. It was all coded and encrypted of course, and the commander had sadly possessed the presence of mind to initiate a data purge when it had become obvious THRUSH had lost. If they found anything at all, it would take weeks.

There was no sign of Napoleon. Which, of course, matched perfectly with the information they had, so the profound sense of of disappointment caught Illya by surprise. Evidently, deep down, he had been hoping otherwise. Napoleon's optimism was clearly rubbing off on him. He'd always said his partner was a bad influence.

And now, of course, he would do anything to have that bad influence back. He stared at the vials of neurotoxin sitting innocently on the bench. The same effect as KL204 but over a much smaller area.

"Illya?" Louie spoke up from behind him. "Section I are sending a containment team to take this lot into custody. They'll be here in an hour."

Yes. He turned and looked at their captives, six relatively mid-to-high ranking THRUSH officers and scientists. A valuable catch. Section I would be very anxious they be debriefed as soon as possible. And that process too would take weeks and it would be extremely unlikely they'd be asking the questions Illya wanted answered, even if it would do any good by then.

Who was looking nervous? Who was looking defiant? The commander – a tall man named O'Briain – stared back at him with hate in his eyes.

Without breaking eye contact, Illya reached out and plucked a hazmat suit off the hanger and pulled it on.

"What...what are you doing?" Louie asked nervously.

"Starting the interrogation before the containment team gets here," he said coldly. Deliberately, he picked up one of the vials of neurotoxin, making sure the prisoners could see. At the same time, he stealthily palmed an empty vial from the desk.

He heard a sharp intake of breath. "Illya...be reasonable. You can't do this. Mr Waverly will - "

" - Mr Waverly is not here," he said sharply. "And while I have no doubt he will indeed slap me on the wrist, as long as I get results he will not quibble." In actuality, of course, if he really tried to use nerve gas on helpless prisoners Mr Waverly would do a great deal more than slap his wrist. He would be deprogrammed and on his way to Moskva for transport to a gulag before he could blink. And that would only be if he was lucky. They both knew that. Briefly, he let Louie see the empty vial in his other hand. "If this is what it takes to get the information I want, so be it. To hell with UNCLE red tape."

Louie's eyes widened fractionally as he saw the empty vial, and he gave a miniscule nod of acknowledgement. "Everyone always said you were a cold-blooded monster, Kuryakin, but I never believed it until now," he breathed. "No, I can't let you do this." He took a step forwards, his back now towards the prisoners, and he quickly gestured with his thumb towards his jaw.

Wait, no one was actually calling him a cold-blooded monster behind his back, were they?

Carefully, he laid the neurotoxin back down on the desk, pleased to see all six THRUSH officers watching it fearfully. "You're a fool, Framer," he said dispassionately, and he threw a punch at Louie's face. The other agent fell backwards convincingly, and stumbled for the door.

"I'm getting help," he declared. "You have to be stopped!" He took a step out of the door but quickly concealed himself against a wall, out of sight but there to act as back up if need be. Good. That little show could help convince the prisoners.

Illya picked up the neurotoxin again. "And now if we don't have any more interruptions..." he said dryly. "Commander O'Briain. You will come with me." The empty vial safely concealed in his belt, he pointed his gun at the commander until he sullenly got to his feet and walked ahead.

The experimentation chambers were just on the other side of the corridor. Five pods with their own airlocks and observation windows. The first contained the body of a dead dog, apparently a victim of the neurotoxin. Poor mutt. Illya didn't particularly care for dogs, but to see any animal being the victim of such suffering was wrong. "Get in," he said curtly, gesturing to the second chamber.

O'Briain did, and Illya followed him inside. "Must we let this farce continue?" O'Briain asked with a contemptuous curl of his lip. "You're not going to do it, Kuryakin. You don't have it in you."

"Unfortunately you are correct," Illya agreed and swiftly brought the barrel of his gun down across the back of O'Briain's head. He crumpled satisfactorily to the ground and Illya quickly checked his pulse and breathing. Good. He would be out for at least an hour. Plenty of time.

He stepped into the airlock and started to artfully arrange the body up against the doorway, so when he closed it, the appearance was of a man who had died desperately trying to claw his way through a metal door in order to escape.

With a nod of approval, he carefully concealed the unused vial of neurotoxin and waited a few more moments before loudly giving a guttural scream of agony. Then he casually strolled back into the control room.

"Sadly, commander O'Briain did not wish to speak to me," he announced, making a point of smoothly picking up another vial of neurotoxin. "So who is next?" He looked round their ashen faces for a long moment, and finally pointed lazily to the youngest, the commander's deputy. He was practically shaking. "You. What's your name?"

"Stinson," the man quivered.

"Very good," Illya nodded crisply. "See? You're talking to me already. Now. Follow me."

Behind the hazmat visor, he gave a smile when Stinson saw O'Briain's apparently dead body. The man almost jumped out of his shoes.

"As I said," he said casually. "He was not cooperative. So. Room 3. On you go."

He switched the vial in his hand for the empty one and followed Stinson inside. "Now," he said when the airlock was closed, lifting the vial up high. "Either you tell me what I wish to know, or I smash this and watch you die as well."

"I'll tell you anything," Stinson babbled his eyes large and terrified. "Please. Whatever you want to know. Just don't...don't..."

"Very well," Illya said, affecting a slight note of disappointment. "Quickly now. Tell me the whereabouts of Napoleon Solo. Or, failing that, tell me where I can find Halcutt-Harris – or the Baron of London, whatever you want to call him."

"The Baron will have Solo stashed at his base," Stinson said breathlessly, his eyes still fixed on the vial in Illya's hand. "It's a big country estate in a place called Puddlemuir. It's in Kent, I think. I don't...that's all I know, I swear."

It had the ring of truth. And it was all he was likely to get. "Very well," he said. "Thank you. Someone will be along to collect you shortly."

As he turned away he let the smile spread across his face. A lead at last. Not long now, Napoleon.

As he walked out the airlock he found Elsa staring at him with an expression of unabashed horror. Ah. "Elsa," he began, but she turned away and ran.

* * *

They put a call through to Mr Waverly on the video line, once they were back at the Dublin office. Illya leaned heavily on the conference table. Louie had an ice pack pressed against his jaw.

"I understand congratulations are in order, gentlemen," Mr Waverly said.

"Yes, sir," Illya agreed. "The base is in our hands and all the neurotoxin experiments have been destroyed."

"Yes, I received a call from Dr Reed to that effect," Mr Waverly said, leaning closer to the camera with a frown. "Along with some rather disturbing information. She said, Mr Kuryakin, that she witnessed you utilising the neurotoxin on some prisoners. And that you struck two UNCLE agents." His gaze shifted pointedly to Louie, who promptly dropped the ice pack.

"That was completely necessary, sir," Louie answered on Illya's behalf. "For...verisimilitude."

"I see," Mr Waverly said. "And the prisoners?"

"A ruse only," Illya explained calmly. "Designed to intimidate our prisoners into giving up information they would be unlikely to share otherwise."

"I see," Mr Waverly said again, a stark hint of disapproval on his face. What Illya had done could, after all, be considered a kind of psychological torture. "I look forward to reading your report, Mr Kuryakin. I will consider from there whether disciplinary action is called for."

"Yes, sir," he agreed. "I did find out the current whereabouts of this Baron of London. He's apparently in an estate in Kent. I believe we should take advantage of that to put him out of business once and for all. Really, he was responsible for the most successful part of this affair from THRUSH's point of view. He is a worryingly competent opponent to leave running around." He didn't for a second believe that any of them thought his motive for going after the Baron wasn't saving Napoleon, but everything he said was true. It didn't matter his reasons were personal, as long as his reasoning was objective.

He hesitated for a second, wondering if Mr Waverly suspected that Illya would go whatever he said. He would much rather do this under UNCLE's auspices, but no matter what, he wasn't abandoning Napoleon. "Really, sir, if we leave it now we may not get another chance anytime soon," he added sincerely. "I suspect the Baron will go to ground if he thinks we are looking for him."

"You make some very good points, Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverly agreed. "Very well. You and Mr Framer will travel back to England and put a stop to this Baron's activities."

He felt something relax deep inside him. Yes. Finally. "At once, sir," he said, resisting the urge to say 'thank you'.

"And you might want to rescue Mr Solo while you're there," Mr Waverly added. "It has now become imperative that we retrieve our CEA. After all, you are next in line, and I can't very well promote you with the possibility of a disciplinary investigation hanging over your head now, can I? Think how it would look."

"No, I suppose not," Illya agreed, his face carefully blank. Mr Waverly didn't think Napoleon was dead either, he realised with a burst of relief. "Very well, sir. We'll head back to England straight away."

"I'll arrange transportation for you immediately," Eoin said as the screen went blank. Illya nodded his thanks and headed for the door. Somehow, the sooner they were at the airport the sooner he could find Napoleon.

"I can't believe Elsa turned you in like that," Louie said as he moved to follow.

Illya shrugged. "The details would have been in my report regardless," he said. He'd had no intention of lying about his actions. "As they should be in yours. In the circumstances, she was correct to report what she thought she'd seen." He turned back to Louie and gave a half smile. "Although I do appear to have gone from 'unfeeling marionette' to 'dangerously unstable' in the course of just a few days. Which is quite remarkable."

Louie laughed. "Yeah."

"I do hope Napoleon doesn't intend to keep seeing her for any length of time," he added, more to himself than anything else. "Somehow, I suspect things could get awkward."

"Does Napoleon ever see any woman for any length of time?" Louie asked rhetorically.

Hmm. He frowned slightly, realising he was speaking out of turn. "Sometimes," was all he said.

Wisely, Louie chose not to pursue it. "So, I guess we're off to find Napoleon," he said.

"Yes," he agreed, and it was all he could do to keep the joy and relief from shining through in his voice.

* * *

At some point the radio cut out. Napoleon barely noticed. It wasn't like it made a difference; he was going to be hearing the sounds of the dying for the rest of his life. In all his years at UNCLE he'd somehow never seriously considered that THRUSH could _win._ Not so terribly, not like this.

He stayed very still. The anger was practically unmanageable. His hands were shaking, all those _people.._

And Illya was dead. He was almost ashamed of the way his thoughts kept circling back there. In the circumstances one man's death should be insignificant. But he kept thinking about little things. The times Illya had lifted his wallet in revenge for some slight. The look he gave Napoleon when he thought Napoleon was being stupid. The way he smiled sometimes when no one else was watching. All that ripped away. And the last thing he'd ever said to Illya, just before he;d left for the summit, had been some joke about whether or not the KGB would approve of his jacket. Why had he said that? They both knew perfectly well that tomorrow might never come.

Illya had told him once in a mood of morbid contemplation that he wanted to be buried back in Russia. THRUSH would have disposed of...of the _body_...Napoleon knew, but maybe there was something...something...

_There was a cold frost hanging in the air. They'd gone for a walk after Baker's funeral, stepping away from the numb, grieving relatives. Baker had left behind two parents who'd had no idea that their son was a spy or that he did anything dangerous at all. There were no words to explain it, not really. Napoleon had tried telling them that Baker had died protecting the world, but he doubted it really made a difference. They wanted a living son, not a dead hero._

" _Almost makes you glad, doesn't it?" he said to Illya as they leaned on the old stone bridge, staring down at the frozen river below._

_Illya understood immediately. Didn't he always. "That there would be no one left behind to grieve. Perhaps."_

_He sighed. "I had to write letters home in Korea a couple of times. I never knew what to say then either."_

" _I'm sure they helped, in time," Illya told him, leaning back against the wall. "You are good at compassion, my friend. When the immediacy of grief fades, they would remember what you said."_

" _He was a good man," he said, gazing down at the ripples moving beneath the ice._

" _Yes," Illya agreed. "He deserved better." There was silence for a while._ " _When I die," he said suddenly. "I would wish to be buried back in Russia."_

_He hesitated for a long moment. This conversation felt like tempting fate, and he tried to never do that. "You want your ghost to wander the taiga?" he asked lightly._

" _I don't believe in ghost and spirits," Illya said with a snort. "Death is the end."_

_And there was a discussion they'd had on and off since they'd met, and somehow Napoleon had never quite learned to stop picking at it. "If there's nothing after death, what difference does it make where you're buried?" he asked._

_Illya gave a humourless smile. "All men can be irrational," he said. "Religion has nothing to do with it."_

"I'll do what I can," he said, realising vaguely that he'd spoken his every line of the conversation aloud, and still he could almost hear Illya's soft ' _You always do.'_

Oh, god.

His throat was thick with grief.

No. This couldn't be. There would be enough time for mourning later. Right now, he had to get out of here. THRUSH would be launching their attack on New York within a few days at the very most. He couldn't let that happen.

( _"Finally," Illya whispered exasperatedly inside his head, and he closed his eyes against the loneliness._ )

And he had to kill the Baron. Because maybe he hadn't killed Illya himself, maybe he hadn't killed all those innocents, but he was part of it, he'd revelled in it, and he had to pay. They all had to pay.

Alright. So he had the key to this cage, but the Baron would notice it was missing soon enough and there was still the surveillance cameras to contend with, not to mention the electric sensors. He pursed his lips in thought. There had to be monitoring him from somewhere close by; there was hardly any gap at all between them shocking him and walking in. And he knew the electrodes had to be manually triggered, or else they wouldn't be able to _not_ shock him sometimes, or shock him when he hadn't fallen asleep. So that suggested there would be somewhere close at hand where he could turn them off, even if he couldn't remove them.

The surveillance was more of a problem. Except he had been here for days at least without doing anything, and the electrodes did trigger an alarm or something when he fell asleep. In those circumstances did he really believe that the guard or whoever was assigned to watch the camera feed was doing so religiously? Or might they be slacking off, content that he was contained and broken.

Oh, that was weak. It was a terrible gamble to risk his best shot at freedom on; he could almost sense Illya's disapproval. But it wouldn't be the first time an inattentive THRUSH guard had saved the day. And time was running out and he didn't have any other plans.

Just a little of his usual luck. Please. That was all he was asking. Everything had gone wrong, he just needed a little luck.

That was the moment he suddenly became conscious of the noise. It was muffled but he could just about hear...was that an alarm? It certainly sounded like one. And if it _was,_ that meant that people were almost certainly busy with something that wasn't him. _This_ was his best chance, and he had to move quickly.

He stumbled to his feet and staggered to the door. His legs would scarcely hold him. He hurt everywhere.

Breathless, he reached through the bars and clumsily twisted his hands around until he managed to slide the key through the lock. It felt like an age until the door unlocked with a soft click. So far so good, but he still had to move fast.

Miraculously enough, the room door wasn't locked. He guessed the Baron had counted on him never going out of the cage.

Now, as he remembered from when they'd come in, the exit would be to the left. Of course, they might have walked past it, but he was still going to guess that the monitoring room was to the right.

The corridor ended abruptly up a short flight of stairs. There was only one door. Well, he might as well give it a try.

Very, very carefully he pushed the door open. There was a guard in THRUSH uniform there, along with Dr Vargas. They were arguing and watching a bunch of monitors which seemed to be flicking through the rest of the house. Trying to find out what was going on, he guessed.

There was also a second monitor off to the right, showing the empty cage he'd just left. They weren't looking at that right at this moment, thankfully. Below it was what looked like a printout of his heart rate and brain activity, attached to a sinister-looking machine. And that was presumably what he had to turn off.

Just as soon as he got past the two of them, that was.

A mug of coffee had been left lying on the desk just next to the door. Steam was still rising from it.

He threw the coffee in the doctor's face and immediately dived for the guard, trying to wrestle the gun away from him. Unfortunately either the guard was far faster than he looked, or Napoleon was just too dulled, because the guard easily pulled the gun back and elbowed Napoleon in the face. He fell back, but managed to kick out at the guard's legs, bringing him down as well, and he scrambled forwards, the gun in his hands now, and there wasn't room to shoot so he brought it down heavily across the man's head, and when he was still moving, he did it again.

That was when the familiar pain hit. That was when he was screaming.

Dimly, through the haze over his eyes he could see Vargas standing by the machine, his hand on the switch as he watched Napoleon writhing in agony, an expression of rapt fascination alive on his face. He had to move...he had to stop this. He had to...had to...

A shot rang out just as his vision blurred over. Vaguely he was aware of footsteps running past, unintelligible voices, and then the pain stopped abruptly.

He lay still for a second, just concentrating on breathing, and gradually he realised that someone was leaning over him, talking to him.

" - poleon! Napoleon, open your eyes. Look at me."

That...that sounded like... He opened his eyes. Illya was leaning over him, concern showing openly on his face.

"Boy," he said weakly, to no one in particular. "These hallucinations are really getting bad."

"He's been drugged?" Louie Framer asked, and when Napoleon looked over he was – or appeared to be – standing by the door, on guard.

"No," Illya said, if it was Illya, which it couldn't be. "The Baron doesn't use them."

"No," Napoleon agreed. "He has...other methods."

Maybe he'd finally gone out of his mind. Maybe he'd died and his punishment for Bombay was going to be living this all over again except with Illya here too.

"I see that," Illya said, and of course his mind could reproduce the hidden gentleness in Illya' voice, the care with which he reached up to the electrodes at Napoleon's temple. "Here. Let me help you."

He braced himself for the pain.

Illya hesitated. "Napoleon...I disarmed the machine. It should be quite safe."

Right. Only if Illya wasn't real that wouldn't matter. But the electrode came off in Illya's hands and he barely felt more than a sting. He wondered, as Illya deftly set about removing the rest. Was he just imagining all of this? Or was he mentally putting Illya in another's place? Or...or was Illya actually here, alive and well in front of him.

He had a feeling if he wasn't so tired the answer would be obvious.

He couldn't take the chance – he reached out and gripped Illya's arm. "THRUSH are going to New York anytime now. They have the neurotoxin set up in prime targets across the city, including HQ."

"We destroyed the last of the neurotoxin," Illya assured him. "I got your message, we found the lab in Dublin, and put them out of business for good. That's how I learned where you were being held." He hesitated for a second. "I am sorry I didn't get here sooner, my friend."

He shook his head slowly. "No. No, Dublin was a trap. I sent you...I failed, I'm sorry."

"You did not fail," Illya said firmly.

"They used the neurotoxin on Bombay," he said with quiet agony, and none of this made sense to him. "They killed forty thousand people."

"That didn't - " Illya began and he shook his head frantically.

" - _I saw you dead,"_ he said, looking straight into Illya's eyes.

Illya paused. "That did not happen," he said quietly. "I have not been near death for at least a month now."

"Which may be a new personal record," Napoleon murmured. He was so tired, and his head ached with the effort of trying to figure all this out. Illya was telling him everything he wanted to hear. Should he believe that?

The photo.

Slowly he got to his feet, ignoring Illya's attempts to help him, and he marched determinedly out of the room and back to his erstwhile torture chamber.

The other two were following him. He heard Louie swear in sickened horror as he walked in.

Carefully, he lifted the picture from the floor, and immediately Illya took it from his hand. A brief expression of disquiet crossed his face, but he shook his head almost immediately. "This isn't real," he declared, looking at Napoleon intently. "It's a fake. A good one, but a fake nonetheless. See the blurring here?" He pointed. "I hate to give you ammunition, but they have taken a photo of a far taller man and imposed me on it."

He looked. And he wasn't sure, but he wanted to believe and he was starting to feel like maybe it was the doubting that was making him crazy.

"Not to mention," Illya added persuasively. "That I am standing right in front of you."

He walked over to the radio and picked it up, finding the recording device almost immediately. They'd recorded that broadcast and played it to him when it was convenient.

"None of it was real?" he asked, lifting his eyes up to look at Illya.

"No," Illya confirmed gently.

He nodded and then his knees gave out and he pitched forwards.

Illya caught him before he hit the floor. "Easy, easy," he murmured. "Alright. We still haven't located the Baron yet. Macduff and Cornell are still searching upstairs. I need to go join them. Louie, call a medical team and stay with him. OK?"

He stood to leave and Napoleon found himself reaching out and grabbing his arm. "Don't," he said, before he could help himself.

Illya looked at him.

"You're the only thing that's real," he admitted, shivering slightly.

"And I will still be real when I get back," Illya said in a voice that was just for him as he knelt and took off his jacket, draping it carefully over Napoleon's shoulders. "I promise."

He nodded. The mission came first. He knew that.

He wrapped his hand in the fabric of the jacket, clinging to the solidness of Illya's ID badge in the inner pocket.

* * *

Stealthily, Illya crept back up stairs, his gun drawn. A couple of stun grenades had taken care of most of the THRUSH guards on the ground floor, and the two English agents had taken the upper levels while he and Louie had headed down to the basement. And so far, none of them had found any sign of the Baron.

Unfortunate; there was rather a lot Illya was anxious to discuss with the man.

They'd heard Napoleon screaming from the stairs. He'd vaulted the bannister at the last landing and sprinted down the corridor, and when he'd kicked the door down and seen Napoleon on the floor, that scientist standing over him, he hadn't even hesitated before shooting the man through the head.

He flexed his fingers tightly, worried and angry in equal measures. Napoleon wasn't looking good. Beneath the blood and bruises, his skin was grey and clammy and his eyes were bruised and sunken in. He looked like he hadn't slept or eaten in weeks, trapped in some hell that Illya could only guess at.

He was passing through the dining room now. Absently, he picked up a couple of bars of chocolate and a bottle of Coca Cola that someone had left lying on the table. Napoleon could surely use the calories.

Possibly the Baron wasn't even here. It wasn't like he'd spent much time on surveillance before going in. Napoleon had been his priority. Still, all the justifications he'd used were still valid, and he didn't want to have to explain to Mr Waverly that he'd lost him.

There was a noise from the hallway behind him. He raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he was in luck after all.

He crept towards the door and pushed it open, and sighed as he saw Louie and Napoleon walking out of the basement entrance. Well, Napoleon was limping, holding himself up against the wall while Louie hovered at his elbow, looking desperate to offer a hand.

"I thought I told you to keep an eye on him," he said to Louie.

Louie looked vaguely uncomfortable. "I, uh, thought it would be best to take him outside to wait for the medical team, "he said.

Mmm. "You do not need to obey his orders when you're rescuing him," he said.

"Don't listen to him, Louie," Napoleon said. "He lies." He was looking a little brighter already, probably from being out of that basement. Possibly Louie had a point.

"Go and check if it's clear outside," he ordered Louie.

"Yes sir," Louie nodded, quickly walking towards the door.

Napoleon groaned slightly and slid down the wall. "You know," he said. "He wasn't that respectful when I was working with him. I think you intimidate him."

"Good," he said with a small smile. He started to crouch down in front of Napoleon, starting to reach for the chocolate he'd picked up.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow in askance. "Is that a bottle of Coke in your pocket, or are - "

" - Please," Illya interrupted pointedly. "Don't." He retrieved the bottle and passed it over along with the chocolate.

"Thanks," Napoleon said, taking a swig and closing his eyes. After a second, he opened his eyes and looked at Illya. "How long?"

"Six days," Illya told him.

"Hmm." He paused. "Felt longer."

Yes. It had.

"Did I miss anything interesting?" Napoleon asked, with an effortful brightness.

He pursed his lips innocently, knowing what Napoleon needed to hear right at this moment ."Well, Comrade Kovaleva declared my hair a disgrace to the Soviet Union," he offered.

Napoleon laughed slightly. "Just for the record, partner mine, UNCLE isn't too crazy about it either."

"Everything looks clear," Louie called out from behind them, and he half turned his head to look. He was just in time to hear the shot and see Louie fall.

"Don't move, Mr Kuryakin!" the Baron called, from somewhere off to his right. "Put your hands on your head and stand up very slowly."

"Which do you want?" Illya asked ironically. "I cannot possibly do both."

"Believe me, Mr Kuryakin, I am really not in the mood," the Baron said, his voice sharp with barely suppressed anger.

He met Napoleon's eyes and Napoleon nodded slightly, his eyes clear. Alright. Slowly, he raised his hands to his head, and that gave Napoleon the opportunity to lean forwards, draw Illya's gun from his holster, and as Illya quickly threw himself to the right, Napoleon shot five times. His aim didn't waver for a second.

Hastily, he scrambled to his feet and check the Baron. "Dead," he announced, relieved as he saw the five holes through the man's chest, the fixed and staring eyes. It was over.

Louie was already groaning and trying to sit up, his hand pressed tight against his shoulder. "Good thing I already called the docs," he panted.

Yes. He checked him quickly; it wasn't too bad at all. Clean through, and a quick sacrifice of his tie provided a tourniquet.

Napoleon still had the gun in his hand, staring across the room at the man he'd just killed, his face closed off and expressionless. Illya went and sat next to him.

"I can't believe you're the only one not injured," Napoleon said after a moment, and he was trying a little too hard to sound quite normal.

He nodded and leaned over and took his gun back, his arm brushing easily against Napoleon's. "It's over," he said.

"Yes." Napoleon closed his eyes for a moment, his breathing deep and steady. "Let's go home."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And here we are, the last chapter. Shorter than preceding chapters and took longer. Hate it when that happens.
> 
> Oh, and if anyone is interested, while I was looking up legitimate headlines one of the ones that came up was for the Italian government asking for assistance to stop the Leaning Tower of Pisa falling down. Frankly, think that inclusion would have been a massive derailment.

They didn't go home, they went to the infirmary in London HQ. Rationally, Napoleon knew that he needed to be checked out and probably get medical attention of some kind, but everything felt wrong – too loud, too bright, too chaotic, and it seemed as though it was all he could do to keep himself together.

He needed to sleep. But he'd spent so long forcing himself awake that the very idea was unthinkable, and when the brusque doctor with the non-existent bedside manner bent over him to run some tests on whatever it was they wanted to run tests on, he could taste the adrenaline at the back of his throat.

"What are you doing?" he asked sharply.

The doctor looked up at him as if vaguely surprised there was a patient attached to the vital signs. "Oh, Mr Solo, just lie still. I won't be a moment." He moved to attach something cold and metal to Napoleon's chest and he reacted with the instinct of well-controlled panic, seizing the doctor's wrist and bending it back sharply, leaving his other hand free to come up and slam hard into the doctor's jaw.

There was a second of silence and then a blur of shouting and he struggled for a moment but then it was Illya's hands holding him down and he went limp.

"He's confused," Illya said sharply to someone just over his shoulder. "He doesn't know what he's doing."

He met Illya's eyes. They both knew that Napoleon had known exactly where he was and who he was punching. He turned his face away.

He needed to sleep. But every time he closed his eyes, even for a second, he was expecting pain, and he was expecting to open them again and find himself back in the cage. Nothing felt real, and when he closed his eyes Illya died. He had to keep reminding himself that it was over – the Baron was dead and everything he'd said had been lies – but in his head he heard tens of thousands of people dying and knowing the truth wasn't the same as believing it.

Every time he closed his eyes he had to open them again to make sure Illya was still there.

* * *

Physically speaking, Napoleon's injuries were not too severe, Illya was told. The bruising and lacerations that came from a bad beating, some electrical burns and a cracked rib. That was a relief. It seemed the main things the doctors were concerned about were exhaustion and dehydration, and at least the treatment for those was obvious and understood. Always assuming, of course, that Napoleon was willing – or able? - to cooperate and actually rest.

He saw the way Napoleon pinched the back of his hand when he thought no one was looking, and the way when he did fall asleep, even for a few minutes, he would look round till he found Illya, a flash of relief apparent in his eyes.

Putting the pieces together, it seemed as though Napoleon had been told of attacks in Bombay and New York and had believed it completely. Illya knew how much the loss of one innocent weighed on his partner – on both of them, were he being honest with himself – so the thought of the deaths of thousands would have been crushing, so much more so than any physical torture. The Baron had known exactly what strings to pull. Illya almost wished Napoleon hadn't killed him so Illya could have the pleasure of doing so himself.

He should have got to Napoleon sooner. That was the thought weighing down on his soul. Yes, he knew duty came first, but he should have been able to do better. All that time wasted in Dublin...he should have been able to find the lab faster, he could have wasted less time getting the information...he should have been _better._

And then, presumably after the Baron had got word that the Dublin facility had been captured he'd taken that and twisted it around, making it a failure and blaming it on Napoleon. And he'd told Napoleon Illya was dead. Even as he acknowledged how that would have hurt his partner, it made him uncomfortable. He disliked being anyone else's weak spot.

But after all, wasn't Napoleon his? Over the past week he had skirted the bounds of what was acceptable, and he would have disobeyed orders without a second thought if Mr Waverly had forced his hand. If they must be fools, at least they were fools together.

He wondered how persuasive Mr Waverly would find that argument.

He made his report quickly out in the corridor, sticking to the facts; Napoleon was safe, they had several prisoners but the Baron was dead.

Mr Waverly didn't seem too displeased with the news. "We might have received some useful intelligence from Halcutt-Harris, but it's more important that his activities have been curtailed. I suppose congratulations are in order, Mr Kuryakin."

"Thank you, sir," he said automatically, one eye still on the doorway to Napoleon's room.

"And I understand that Mr Solo should make a full recovery within a few weeks," Mr Waverly went on.

"Yes, thankfully his injuries weren't too severe," Illya said, audible relief seeping out into his voice. "Although I think it will be a few days before he's back on his feet."

"Oh, I'm told by personnel that you have missed a few days off as a result of this affair," Mr Waverly said, as if suddenly remembering. "It would be convenient if you were to take them now. Please give Mr Solo my regards."

That was an unexpected and welcome bonus. While he had no doubt Mr Waverly wouldn't hesitate to call him back in if he was needed, he did want to stay here for the moment. Besides. He really had lost his days off.

As he was putting his communicator away, Elsa and Louie came up the stairs towards him. Elsa barely looked at him as she pushed past him towards Napoleon's room, his lips thin and furious. He didn't try to stop her, after all she was angry with him, not Napoleon, and he could hear her enthusiastic relief the moment she set foot in the room.

He turned his attention to Louie, whose arm was wrapped up in a sling. "They let you out quickly," he noted.

"Apparently it wasn't bad enough to make a fuss over," Louie said ruefully. "Though I do get a week's medical leave and light duties after that."

"Imagine what you have to do to get two weeks," Illya said dryly.

Louie laughed. "I'm on the next flight back to New York," he said. "I guess I'll see you back home?"

"I imagine so," he agreed.

With a nod, Louie started to walk back towards the stairs.

Illya waited until he was halfway down the corridor before calling after him. "Louie? You did prove useful."

Louie turned and gave a half smile at the acknowledgement.

* * *

"Oh, Napoleon, I've been so worried about you."

He closed his eyes and let Elsa's lovely worried voice wash over him, tried to enjoy the feeling of her warm hands wrapped around his, the memory of how her soft lips had caressed his forehead a few moments ago. It was no use, it felt like he was simply observing all this from a very long way away.

"I'm fine," he said with a carelessly charming smile, reaching up and brushing her hair off her face. "I'm like a cat, I always land on my feet."

She grabbed his hand and kissed it lightly. "Well, looking at you right now, I think you should find a different line of work. Or at least better co-workers."

He was barely listening. It felt like his every nerve was on a knife edge. Illya was hanging back in the doorway and Napoleon met his eyes with a silent plea.

"I'm sorry, Dr Reed," Illya said, sweeping into the room immediately. "I'm afraid Napoleon and I have some business that we need to discuss that you cannot by privy to."

She turned to look at Illya and Napoleon blinked at the expression on her face – ugly, furious. "Napoleon is in no state to be working."

"Our bosses orders I'm afraid," Illya said firmly. "There is an agent waiting for you downstairs to take you anywhere you want to go."

"Very well," she said unhappily, and she looked back at Napoleon, her lips compressed, like she was holding something back. "If you're going to be in town for a while, will you come and see me when you're feeling better? I'd love to show you the sights."

"I'd like that very much," he smiled, and it wasn't until she'd left that the smile – the mask – fell from his face and he slumped back down into bed, his eyes closing.

"Sorry," Illya said quietly. "I thought you would like to see her and so I did not stop her."

Yes, and probably another time he would have enjoyed that scene very much. "I get the impression she doesn't think that much of you," he said without opening his eyes.

"First I didn't look for you. Then I looked too hard," Illya said cryptically.

He nodded. Illya tended towards single-mindedness when in pursuit of something important. Probably Elsa's feelings had been brushed aside as irrelevant by his determined partner. She would get over it no doubt, and he was simply too tired to care as he maybe should. "Looked for me too hard?"

"I may be facing a disciplinary investigation, and so suddenly found myself in need of a CEA who is a soft touch," Illya claimed nonchalantly.

He smiled slightly. Was it strange that Illya's cynicism made him feel so much better than Elsa's sympathy?

A nurse bustled in, carrying a cup of pills. "Here you go, Mr Solo," she said cheerily. "I've got some medicine for you to take."

He didn't move. "And what am I taking?"

"Dr Riddoch has written you up for some sedatives to help you sleep," she explained.

He smiled. "No," he said firmly. "Thank you."

"You need to rest," she said, still holding the cup out and frowning like he was a naughty child in need of some encouragement.

"No," he repeated, a definite chill creeping into his voice. "The last time I checked, I'm a section head of good standing in this organisation. I think I can decide whether I want your pills or not."

She opened her mouth as though to object, but then suddenly Illya was standing at her elbow, blocking her way to his bed, and Napoleon couldn't see his face, but whatever _she_ saw there was apparently enough to make her take a step back.

"Well, really," she said huffily and she quickly walked back out the room, presumably to go report the pair of them to Dr Riddoch.

He could feel Illya's keen gaze turned on his face. Just because Illya had backed him up didn't mean that he agreed. "I don't like taking pills," Napoleon reminded him. He didn't like the way they made everything feel fuzzy and twisted. And since he felt like that already, that made the prospect even less attractive. Besides, right now the idea of losing control over when he fell asleep and when he woke up...no. No, he couldn't allow that to happen.

"That nurse was blonde, very pretty, and filled her uniform out to perfection," Illya remarked. "You barely noticed her. You need to sleep."

He hadn't noticed. "Oh, now you're keeping track of who I _don't_ flirt with? If she was that pretty, maybe you should go and take a shot yourself."

"A little too officious for my taste," Illya told him. "Napoleon - "

" - I can't sleep in here," he admitted heavily. "I need to get out of this place."

Illya studied him shrewdly for a long moment. "Very well," he said. "I'll take care of it."

He relaxed, trusting Illya to be on his side as always. "Try asking nicely," he suggested as Illya headed for the door.

"Charm is more your department," Illya said, turning back to look at him. "But I shall endeavour to muddle through."

He waited as Illya cornered the doctor just outside the door and tried his hand at 'muddling through'. Impatiently, he listened to his partner's soft, persuasive tones. "You say that Napoleon needs to rest, but don't you agree he would find that far easier back home in familiar, secure surroundings?...I understand your desire to keep an eye on him, but really there is little you can do, isn't that right?...Yes, I can assure you I will look after him. I have no intention of going anywhere else for the next few days."

He smiled and closed his eyes again, admitting to himself there was something reassuring about that.

* * *

Persuasive charm really was more Napoleon's department, but it had served him well enough to get Napoleon released from the infirmary and the two of them on an UNCLE plane making a routine delivery across the Atlantic. It wasn't the most comfortable trip he'd ever enjoyed, but it was private and he thought that would probably count for more with Napoleon right now – even though his partner had made a point of flirting with every girl at the airport.

They sat in silence for most of the journey. Napoleon had slept, but not for long enough. An hour at most, before he awoke, looking around himself with sharp unease, and just an undercurrent of anxiety that was painful to see. Perhaps he should have tried to persuade Napoleon to stay in the hospital and take the pills. But that felt like he would be admitting defeat. A minor defeat, maybe, but defeat nonetheless.

The Baron had tried to take something fundamental away that made Napoleon who he was. Illya had no intention of letting that happen.

They had come through worse than this in their time. They had each been hurt worse, each had to watch the other struggle to recover. Napoleon would get through this, just like always, maybe with a couple of new deeply-buried mental scars. They were resilient. And they had each other.

After Napoleon had been asleep for approximately forty minutes, Illya noticed he was in the grip of a nightmare, his brow furrowed, his fists tightly clenched. With a sigh, he leaned forwards and lightly touched Napoleon's hand. "Wake up, my friend," he said softly, and he easily dodged the punch that came his way as Napoleon snapped awake. "He is dead, remember," he said as Napoleon looked around, a hint of wildness stark on his face.

Napoleon's gaze settled on Illya's face. "I'm not afraid," he said briefly, and he turned away.

Illya watched him for a long time. Afraid of the Baron? No. Illya believed him there. Afraid of sleeping...? Afraid of himself...? Perhaps.

* * *

It was a relief to find himself walking back through his own front door. It felt like years since he'd been here, and somehow just stepping over the neat pile of newspapers on the doorstep made him feel more exhausted than ever. It was a struggle to remove his jacket and the weight of it dragged his arm down towards the floor until Illya stepped in and deftly pulled it off his arm and hung it away.

"Bed," he said in a tone that was nothing short of an order, pointing towards Napoleon's bedroom door.

"Yes, mother," Napoleon said, walking instead towards the living room, right up until Illya, looking decidedly unamused, stepped in front of him so suddenly that Napoleon nearly walked into him. "Do you want a drink?" he offered.

"No, I don't want a drink," Illya said with a suppressed sigh. "Napoleon, you need to sleep. I took you out of the hospital because you said you couldn't rest here."

"You took me out of the hospital because I asked, and because you felt guilty," Napoleon corrected, tiredness leaving him sharp and raw.

"Yes, because you asked," Illya agreed. "But I want you to sleep. Properly, for several hours at the very least."

That sounded good. That sounded like everything he should need, but he just wasn't sure he could do it. "I'm not sure I can," he admitted heavily. "Every time I fell asleep, they'd... I know he's dead. I know I'm safe, but I just can't feel it yet." He gave a tight smile. "I know, I know. If I slept I'd be thinking rationally, but I can't sleep because I'm not thinking rationally. It's ridiculous."

"It's human," Illya offered.

"I think I'd like to go back to being superhuman then," he said lightly, sitting down on the nearest armchair. He felt useless like this.

"You've time to relax," Illya said quietly, his hand resting on Napoleon's shoulder. "Don't push yourself." He hesitated for a second. "You're not back at work until medical has cleared you. And psych."

Oh. He glanced up at Illya. "By your recommendation?"

Illya didn't bother trying to sugarcoat it. "Yes," he said, meeting Napoleon's eyes easily and there was nothing there but support and absolute confidence that when it came to it, Napoleon would be able to breeze through all the shrink's test.

Really, he wasn't angry. They both understood how this worked; loyalty was everything, but in the field _both_ their lives and a lot more besides could depend on Napoleon being completely fit for duty. There were yearly routine psychiatric evaluations for all field agents, and in between that any agent could be seen – or request his partner be seen. Part of trusting your partner's judgement was trusting their judgement about yourself. Just because they both hated the process didn't mean it didn't work – and both the current psychiatrists in the New York office were former field agents themselves, which he had to admit helped. It was good to know that they understood.

"Fine," he said with bad grace. "That still doesn't help me sleep right now."

"Would you like to talk about it?" Illya offered.

No. But it was just the two of them here and he should feel safe. He sighed. "You know, I didn't really take it too seriously at first. I figured there'd be a way out, and at the back of my mind I thought that if all else failed, eventually you would come and get me."

"I did," Illya reminded him in a low voice. "I'm sorry it wasn't sooner."

He shook his head dismissively. That wasn't the point. "It wasn't the torture, it's just...as it went on, it gets harder and harder to tell what's real and what isn't. It's like there was nothing outside of that cage except what they told me. They hurt me every time I fell asleep. And when he told me you were dead..." He met Illya's eyes and looked away quickly. "It was bad. And I didn't doubt him for a second. And from there I just..." He flexed his fist unconsciously. "I wanted to kill them all. And now I just can't tell what's real and what isn't. I keep forgetting that the Bombay attack didn't happen, and when I close my eyes, I don't know if I think the Baron is going to appear and drag me back to that cage, or if I'm just expecting the pain again, but I _can't_ sleep."

Illya looked at him for a long moment. "Alright," he said at last. "Wait there for a moment."

He did and watched, puzzled, as Illya went and retrieved the bundle of papers from the front door step.

"You really do need to start cancelling your newspaper delivery before you go away," Illya commented as he spread out the papers from the previous week on the floor. "But in this case, it is fortunate. Look at the headlines."

He looked. A few articles on the Jimmy Hoffa trial, a presidential speech or two, Cassius Clay had won the world heavyweight championship and changed his name...but no massive biological weapons attack on Bombay. No reports of forty thousand people being brutally murdered. It wasn't real. And somehow seeing the evidence laid out in front of him like that untwisted the last bit of doubt in his soul. _It wasn't real._ He hadn't failed.

"Thanks," he said softly.

Illya was still crouched on the floor, looking up at him intently. "I am alive, my friend. And the Baron is dead. Now, come on. It is time for you to sleep."

Obedient – and a little amused – he followed Illya through to the bedroom. But he had to raise an eyebrow when Illya drew his gun. "I've admitted I've got a problem sleeping, but do you really think tranq darting me is the solution?"

"It's loaded with live ammo," Illya said, glancing at him coolly.

Napoleon blinked. "Then I really don't think shooting me is the solution."

Illya smiled slightly. "It is not for you." He pulled the chair away from the wall and put it at an angle so it was covering both the door and Napoleon's bedroom window. "I am not going to let anyone hurt you. And I _will_ shoot anyone who sets foot inside this room." He paused. "This would be an excellent time to mention if you have given anyone else a key to your apartment."

"No, just us," Napoleon said, blinking. "You can't just sit up all night."

"Why not?" Illya asked, raising an eyebrow. "I have done so many times before, for far worse reasons."

Yes, but...

"Would this make you feel safer?" Illya asked abruptly. "Will this help you sleep?"

Of course it would.

"Then you can feel foolish in the morning," Illya said, settling onto the chair, his gun in his hand. "And perhaps buy me breakfast. For now? Sleep."

"I find it difficult to argue with that," he murmured, tired beyond reason, and he undressed quickly and got into bed .

The last thing he saw before sleep descended was Illya keeping watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are - the end! Hope you enjoyed - please take a sec to let me know either way.


End file.
